


To Face, Unafraid

by osmia_avosetta



Series: There'll Be No More Darkness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action Sequences Have Officially Killed Me, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, CHRISTMAS DOES HAPPEN I PROMISE, Canon Divergence, F/M, It’s Not Fluffy All The Time, Lots of it, No This Is Really Christmas Themed, Sherlock Being Protective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmia_avosetta/pseuds/osmia_avosetta
Summary: In 1897, a bullet cut short both the career and the life of a young pathologist named Molly Hooper. 112 years later, her disillusioned and dejected ghost met Sherlock Holmes, and everything changed. But now it’s 2014, and the consequences of these changes are starting to appear in Sherlock and Molly’s world. After all, it is quite unusual when a woman who died in the Victorian Era manages to inhibit a body and roam the streets of London once more…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a sequel to my “Halloween in 221B” collection piece, _The Shadows That Define Our Every Sunny Day._ If you haven’t read it or need to refresh your memory, please, _PLEASE_ read it first. It’s important, otherwise a whole lot of details in this fic will make no sense at all. Thank you for your time, and enjoy!

_Later on, we'll conspire,_  
_As we dream by the fire_  
**_To face unafraid,  
_** _The plans that we've made,_  
Walking in a winter wonderland.

* * *

 

 _8 December 2014  
_ _Diogenes Club office of Mycroft Holmes_

Mycroft tossed the file he’d been reading aside, hearing the paper folder hit the desk with a muffled thump. He muttered a curse as he saw a few papers flutter to the office floor.

Suddenly, his door opened, and Mycroft brought his hand up to massage his head, closing his eyes as he sighed.

A high-heeled shoe tapped at the floor, a decidedly female voice _tsk_ ed at him, and Mycroft knew exactly who had entered his room.

“Hello, sir,” Anthea said neutrally, closing his door and walking over to him. Mycroft straightened up and stretched downwards to pick up the papers he’d dropped as Anthea softly sat in her chair across from him, rearranging her ponté dress across her knees. “So, what did you call me here to talk about? I hear you took your parents out to see _Les Misérables_ last month,” she teased, her green eyes twinkling.

Mycroft involuntarily shuddered. “No, please,” he muttered. “It’s Sherlock I called you here about.”

Anthea sobered then and straightened up sharply, gaze zeroing in on the file in Mycroft’s hands. “What’s he done now?”

Mycroft opened the file, took out a sheet of pristine A4, and slid the paper towards the woman who was his closest companion and friend. She took the paper and gazed at the photograph printed on it. Mycroft closed his eyes, steepled his fingers, and imagined the picture Anthea was inspecting.

It was a nicely-taken photograph, even though it was really only a screen-capture of CCTV footage. Taken on a rare sunny day, it consisted of a small, wiry woman sitting neatly on a bench, watery sunlight setting her reddish-brown hair on fire. She was laughing happily at a person close to the edge of the frame: Sherlock Holmes, with a rare, joyful smile in his eyes that Mycroft hadn’t seen in years, since he’d looked at the Baker Street surveillance in 2012 and found his younger brother staring at a small, tortoiseshell frame that had turned up cracked and destroyed in a Dumpster in Southern California in early 2014, whatever had been inside the glass lost to time.

A few months later, Sherlock’s fake pocketbook from _Lazarus_ had turned up in the hands of a pawn-shop dealer in the United States. Mycroft had quickly acquired it and found a photograph inside that was also in the file: a deteriorated, black-and-white photograph of a woman...the woman sitting on the bench with Sherlock in the newer photograph.

“I am afraid,” Mycroft whispered.

Anthea sharply inhaled. “Pardon?”

Mycroft kept his eyes closed, fingertips still pressed lightly together.

“I’m afraid Sherlock has chosen to associate himself with a woman...a woman who is not supposed to exist.”

* * *

 

_10 December 2014_

“Going out, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called out quite jovially to his landlady’s flat, his shining shoes clicking on the floor as he laid a hand on the handle of the front door. “Might be bringing someone back here.” Ignoring her loud query of _Who?_ Sherlock pushed open the door and popped his coat collar, raising his gloved hand for a cab.

Not long afterwards, a black cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock obligingly climbed in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as the door slammed shut.

“Bart’s,” Sherlock said and the car jerked into motion.

Sherlock took his mobile out of coat pocket and lost himself in re-reading his and Molly’s texts. Her texts never ceased to amuse him. She never abbreviated _anything,_ plus her texts always began with a capital letter and ended with proper punctuation and her signature _MH._

The day after Sherlock came back from the dead and crashed into a very much alive Molly Hooper in a dark Bart’s hallway, he’d found out that she neither possessed nor knew how to use a mobile. This alone should have been obvious to Sherlock as Molly Hooper _had_ been a ghost who had met her unfortunate end when an assassin’s bullet buried itself in her back, all because she had been a female pathologist in 1897. (This had left this modern version of Molly hooked on wearing trousers: Sherlock had been given the VIP tour of Molly’s modern flat and had found that she owned no skirts or dresses. _Look Sherlock!_ she'd said happily. _Closet doors slide open now. Isn't that brilliant? I organised my sweaters and jeans and slacks by colour, and length…_ Probably being in a dress for 115 years had put her off dresses and skirts.)

Sherlock had dragged his protesting friend off to the nearest store after her shift and bought her a brand-new mobile, Molly protesting loudly all the way. They’d then sat in Molly’s flat, Sherlock showing Molly how to use the device, inputting his and John’s contact info into the mobile ( _Just in case you need to reach me: if you can’t reach me try John’s number,_ he’d said), and directing her how to text and call. He trusted her to experiment with the mobile’s various features and discover how to do things herself.

It had taken her a week or two, but she’d finally gotten used to the device, texting him on her breaks and trading conversation with him about cases and whatnot. Sherlock grinned as he scrolled past a recent text: _Sherlock, I’m not exactly sure if I’ve told you this yet, but the coffee here is absolutely terrible! How did you manage drinking it for all these years? MH_

Suddenly, Sherlock jerked his head up. _I should have been at Bart’s by now,_ he realized, watching London buildings zip past the cab window.

“Pardon,” he said loudly, tapping at the glass partition separating him from the cabbie. “Why am I not at Bart’s yet?”

“Because that’s not where you’re supposed to be,” the cabbie replied calmly.

_Too calmly._

Sherlock huffed a sigh of pure annoyance. “You’re working with Mycroft,” he said flatly and slumped back into his seat. So he was being abducted by his brother. _Damn it._ He reached for his mobile to text Molly.

_Still on for dinner? SH_

She must have been in the loo, because she replied. _Yes, Sherlock. Why? Is there anything wrong? MH_

Sherlock typed back. _I might be delayed. Unforeseen circumstances. Sorry. SH_

Molly replied. _That’s alright, Sherlock. I understand. I’ll be waiting in our lab if you don’t come before my shift lets up. See you then. MH_

Sherlock replied, _See you then. SH_ and pocketed his mobile, sighing as he saw the Diogenes Club materialize outside his cab window.

As soon as the cab pulled up to Mycroft’s offices, Sherlock swung out without even a word to his driver and entered the main entrance.

 _Looking for my brother,_ Sherlock signed.

The attendant at the desk lazily signed back, _Stranger’s Room, as usual._

Sherlock signed back a “thank-you” and practically ran to the familiar room.

He didn’t bother to knock on the glossy wooden door, just turned the handle, barged in, and slammed it behind him.

“ _Tsk, tsk,_ brother,” Mycroft said, sitting in one of the chairs. “Don’t slam the doors. How many times do I need to tell you?”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, surprised that the words came out as harsh as they did. “I’m _busy._ ”

“Lots of cases, I suppose?” Mycroft said dryly. “Or has someone been enjoying the gift of your company that I suppose you don’t want to tell me about?”

_He knows, the bloody snoop._

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glued his jaws shut and slumped into the chair across from Mycroft, anxiously tapping his toe on the floor and thinking of Molly.

“Tea?” Mycroft asked nonchalantly. “I’m sure you’re somewhat cold. It _is_ December, brother dear.”

“Get to the point, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed. “Just _get to the point._ ”

“If you want it that way,” Mycroft acknowledged, setting his teacup down. “Sherlock, I want to give you a word of warning.”

This caught Sherlock’s attention. He straightened up and looked at his brother questioningly, his eyebrows furrowing. “Oh?”

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

“Okay, are you done?” Sherlock was back in his noncommittal state.

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s tone had hardened. Sherlock knew he was close to breaking point, so he shut up and offered Mycroft his ear.

“Fine, then. I’m listening.”

“Your new... _companion,_ ” Mycroft said a bit awkwardly. “Marie Eleanor Hooper.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Molly? You’ve abducted me to talk about my…” He paused. How was he supposed to refer to her? Friend? Partner? Associate? Comrade? Companion? _Girlfriend?_ “You’ve abducted me to talk about Molly?” he covered up hastily.

From the look in Mycroft’s eyes, the slip hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Yes,” Mycroft said a bit coldly. “Molly. I want to talk to you about... _Molly._ ”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. How much time had passed? He needed to get to Bart’s. “What’s wrong? Is it that I didn’t tell you about her sooner? Well, I’m sorry, it’s just that we’ve known each other longer than you think. I’m allowed to have privacy as a citizen of the Commonwealth, am I not?” He didn’t realize that his tone had gotten a bit waspish until the words came out of his mouth.

Mycroft’s lips pursed disapprovingly. “I do not wish to interfere with your...personal relationships, whatever you choose to make of them,” he sniffed.

“John,” Sherlock interjected. “You bribed John to spy on me for you.”

“Setting that aside,” Mycroft shot back. “I do not wish to interfere with your interpersonal life, or whatever shred you have of one. But this time I feel that I _must_ intervene.”

“What -”

“Sherlock, your _Molly_ is not supposed to exist.”

_Bloody hell._

_He knows something, but he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know that I talked to a ghost at length before meeting John, or that a ghost overstepped the boundaries of living and dead to catch me when I fell off a roof. He doesn’t know everything about Molly, but something we’ve done has made him suspicious._ Inwardly, he slapped himself. _We should have been more careful._

“Oh, really,” Sherlock said, injecting a touch of synthetic amusement into his tone and arranging his face into one of mild, amused disbelief. “Is that all you have for me today, brother dear? Because I must say, it is a rather shocking statement. To be told that one’s friend is not supposed to exist is quite jarring, but it’s a good trick all the same. Good day, Myc -”

“If you’re so set on her innocence, Sherlock,” Mycroft said loudly, voice beginning to rise, “then how do you explain these?”

He drew out two papers from a file he’d had on his lap and laid them on a coffee table next to his tea.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. Against himself, he leaned forward to gaze at the papers.

He almost gasped aloud, but held himself in just in time.

One of the papers, a small, wrinkled one, was a picture he’d never thought he’d see again: the picture of 1800s-Molly he’d printed off the Bart’s archive database in 2011, brought with him during _Lazarus,_ and promptly lost somewhere in Serbia or something. The frame was gone, but the picture was there.

Molly Hooper stared into the camera, slim shoulders squared, eyes gazing out of the picture. A small nose over a delicate little chin, thin (yet quite pretty) lips arranged in a half-smile. Hair done up in an intricate updo. The picture had been taken 1895, and its age showed when Sherlock had found it in the records, and now on the table in front of him.

_Mycroft, how did you find this?_

The other paper had a picture in color, a very recent one, much bigger than the 1895 picture. It showed Molly, in color with her rich dark hair arranged in a neat plait, in one of the sweaters that Sherlock always thought looked quite nice on her: this time, it was a gold-yellow one. She sat on a bench, laughing happily. And Sherlock sat next to her in the picture, with a smile on his face.

_CCTV screen capture. Mycroft, you bloody snoop._

“Oh?” he asked, forcing himself to stay calm. “Well?”

“Look closely, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, a touch of annoyance creeping into his tone. “You’re good at detective work and you can’t even look closely at photographs. It’s perfectly obvious that these people look the same. Your new companion looks just like that woman in the old picture, same name, same birthdate, same parents, even same bloody _occupation,_ except that your new companion happens to be a woman who died more than 100 years ago!”

_He knows too much._

“Well, Mycroft,” Sherlock managed to stamp out quite nonchalantly, “I’m sure you've heard of a _coincidence_ before.” He got up, ignoring his brother’s outraged reply. “I'm going to go pick up my _117-year-old friend_ for dinner. Good day,” Sherlock said calmly and whisked out the door.

All the way to Bart's, Sherlock was slowly simmering in frustration. He desperately wanted to tell Mycroft everything just to clear Molly's name. She couldn't go about with this over her head. She could be captured by the authorities. Interrogated. Examined. Taken for a _spy_ , God forbid.

Sherlock shook his head. But even if he tried to clear Molly's name himself, there was barely a chance that anyone would even believe his testimony. At best, he'd be tested for drugs. At worst, he could be institutionalised in an asylum, and he'd be separated from Molly and John and London and everything he held dear.

And there was no way for anyone to corroborate his story. John always saw through Molly, and Sherlock always took care that no other living person saw him talking to a ghost.

Sherlock groaned in dismay and buried his head in his hands. _Impossible. What can I do?_

The cabbie pulled up outside Bart's and Sherlock made a decision. He would protect his friend, shelter her from Mycroft and whatever he could hurl at her merely on the suspicion of her being someone she wasn't. He couldn't do much politically, but he could protect Molly at least. _And that's what matters_ , he told himself. Tossing a few notes to the cabbie, he swept out without a single word and entered the hospital, flipping up his collar.

He stopped in the lobby of the hospital and sent off a text. _Done? SH_

Molly replied. _Yes. You're here, aren't you? You're just on time, actually. Shall I go to the lobby or are you coming up? MH_

Sherlock smiled despite the worry clouding his thoughts.

_I'm coming up, dear. SH_

* * *

 

Mycroft sat in his chair thoughtfully after his brother’s departure and stared after the slammed door. Sherlock's reactions were very interesting. He'd denied every single thing Mycroft had said about his... _what was her name again?..._ Molly. Mycroft knew deep inside that he might be hurting his brother in a way. But he had good reason to believe that his younger brother had gotten himself deeper than he believed himself to be.

There were things Sherlock didn't know about Molly. She had had no traceable mobile number until just last month. Two years ago, on the 11th of November, 2012, she was hired into Bart's as a pathologist with special recommendations. However, her name was never among those of the graduating class she claimed to be in. In fact, the only place Mycroft ever found Molly's name was a graduation announcement for a medical college from the mid-1880s, in a parenthetical scrawl by the entry _Milo Alexander Hooper._ And this Molly/Milo had died on the 31st of October 1897. Shot, apparently. Assassinated.

And yet a copy of this Molly sat on a bench with the usually antisocial Sherlock Holmes and they _laughed_ together.

“So?” Anthea closed the door behind her.

Mycroft hadn't realised that she'd entered.  “What happened?” Anthea asked.

“Denied everything negative about her, controlled his emotions well. But not enough.” Mycroft made a decision and looked up at Anthea. “Anthea…”

“What is it?” she asked, beginning to type queries into her BlackBerry. She raised a delicate eyebrow.

Mycroft looked at his hands, somehow feeling like he was doing something a bit wrong.

“Increase surveillance on the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes,” he breathed. “And put surveillance on Marie Eleanor Hooper.”

Anthea gasped from above him. Never before had she reacted like this to his decisions. “ _No._ You're not…”

“The highest level there is.”

This time his voice was resolute. She shook her head. “Mycroft. That's the level reserved for suspected double agents and spies of enemy governments. You're not…”

“But, my dear...I _am.”_

Anthea clicked her tongue at him. “Suit yourself,” she said quietly, typing in the queries. “But this might come all down on your head.”

Mycroft shook himself off. “It'll be fine,” he said dismissively.

The look on her face said otherwise.

* * *

 

“ _Dear_ _?"_

Sherlock smirked at the shocked look on Molly’s small face as she hurried out of the locker room.

“You called me _dear!_ ”

Sherlock offered her his elbow, in the vein of proper Victorian gentlemen. Molly always seemed to like it when he did so: perhaps it was something she'd never been able to see the last time she was alive. Molly looped her hand through his elbow and they began the walk to the stairwell.

“Why?” he asked her on the way. “Do you not like it?”

“No!” Molly looked positively hasty to cover up. “No, I mean...I mean yes, I...oh, I meant that I didn't mind it. Not at all. I mean if you wanted to call me your _dear_ that would be fine by me.”

Sherlock almost laughed out loud at his friend. She could always remain the most stoic person he'd ever known when she talked about pathology, or autopsies, or bodies or experiments. But when she had to talk about anything else, she turned into a stuttering mess that made Sherlock smile. He had to admit that her tendency to do so was quite...how did they say it?... _adorable._

“What's so funny?” Molly said indignantly as Sherlock held the door to the stairwell open for her and gestured inwards. She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him, little mouth arranged in a pout.

Sherlock covered his mouth with the hand not holding the door. He hadn't realised he was smirking.

“Nothing, _dear_ ,” Sherlock emphasised the last word.

Molly’s pout disappeared and she giggled as Sherlock led her down the stairs.

They emerged on a quickly darkening London street.

“Ooh,” Molly said, rubbing her forearms as they exited the hospital. “It’s chilly. Where are we going?”

“Remember that fish-and-chip place I took you to last month?”

“Oh yes,” Molly recognized, a glint in her eyes as she tied her striped scarf about her neck and zipped up her coat. “I remember. The one we went to after interviewing the train fanatic?”

Sherlock nodded. “The very one.” He’d taken Molly crime-solving not long after buying her the mobile. She had turned down the offer to help him take clients in the living room, but she went with him to interview the “train fanatic” on his interesting find in the surveillance footage of the Tube. Then he’d taken her out for dinner and escorted her back to her flat.

“Let’s go there, and then I’ve got something I’ve wanted to show you.”

“Brilliant,” Molly said as Sherlock raised a hand for a cab.

They ordered food to take out, earning a raised eyebrow from Molly and a whispered assurance from Sherlock. “I’ve got a plan,” he told her quietly, and she nodded, eyes clearing.

Purchases in hand, they stepped out again onto the pavement. By now it was completely dark, and streetlights cast yellow beams onto the quiet street (save for a few people commuting home). Sherlock raised his gloved hand for a cab, and one showed up not too long after. As they clambered in, Molly whispered, “Do you have some power to easily call cabs? When I try it usually takes me ten minutes!” At this, Sherlock gave a little laugh.

“Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie, and they were off.

Eventually, they pulled up just across the street from the familiar flat, Sherlock paid, and they climbed out, looked left and right for oncoming cars, and dashed across the street to the black door.

Sherlock took out his keys and turned to Molly. While she’d shown him her flat, he had never shown her his. Today he’d tried to make an attempt to tidy up the room so that she could visit, and Sherlock hoped that she’d feel comfortable. A bubble of nervousness broke out in his chest.

“Is this your flat?” Molly asked, looking up at the lighted windows, which were covered with thin drapes. “It’s a nice neighborhood.”

“Yes on both counts,” Sherlock said, unlocking the front door and opening it quietly into the foyer. “After you.”

He closed the door and Molly sighed. “Oh, it’s so much nicer in here.”

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly and eyed the door to 221A. He could distantly hear a radio playing: perhaps Mrs. Hudson was listening to something. “Mrs. Hudson?” he raised his voice.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson hurried out.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed. “Good. It was getting dark and I was beginning to worry.” Suddenly, she noticed Molly, who was hanging back shyly. “Oh,” she observed. “You’ve brought someone!”

Molly stepped forward tentatively and stuck out the hand not holding food. “How do you do?”

“I’m well, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said gently, taking Molly’s hand and shaking it cordially. She looked questioningly at Sherlock.

“Um,” Sherlock said. _I’m horrible at introductions._ “Mrs. Hudson, this is Molly Hooper, one of my friends. Molly, this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Molly said formally.

“Pleased to meet you too,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Well, if you’re going up, I won’t bother you. You’re always welcome here, Molly.”

“Thank you,” Molly said softly, blushing a bit and smiling at the landlady.

“My flat’s just up the stairs,” Sherlock broke in. “The door should be unlocked, Molly. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Okay,” Molly smiled, nodded at Mrs. Hudson, and tentatively climbed the stairs, leaving Sherlock staring after her.

He shrugged off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door as soon as Molly had disappeared to the second landing. Soon, he heard the creak of the door to the living room.

“She’s very nice, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson whispered to him. “And very polite. I do like her.”

“I do too, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, hanging up his scarf. He turned to his landlady, smiled, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson smiling in the foyer.

He entered the living-room of 221B to see Molly tracing a finger across the various books on his shelves. As soon as Molly realized he had entered the room, she jumped away and looked down apologetically. “Sorry, Sherlock,” she apologized. “It’s just...you have such a _nice_ collection of books. I never realized one could have so many books on beekeeping.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blush, as he felt a warm sensation around his ears and neck. “It’s a side passion,” he acknowledged. “I’ve often thought of retiring to a cottage in Sussex and setting up a couple of hives. Would be a nice life.”

“That’s lovely,” Molly said, smiling. “Shall we eat? I’m absolutely famished.”

“Right,” Sherlock said.

They ended up eating on the couch and talking about various topics, debating on various hypothetical crime scenes. Eventually, as their chips got cold, they ended up in the homemade lab, Sherlock and Molly still debating as Sherlock set up a burner and some supplies to conduct a flame test.

“But the powder showed up with a _yellow_ flame in the flame tests,” Molly argued. “Surely it would be some form of sodium?”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock argued back. “I’m seriously questioning whether they used a cobalt blue glass or not. If they did, then they _could_ see the real color of the flame. Sodium easily contaminates other substances. In my opinion they did a messy job of the flame test. If they used a cobalt blue glass, then perhaps they could have found that the powder was some form of calcium. Then that -”

“Then that would incriminate Mr. Boyle,” Molly realized suddenly, searching the cabinets. “Sherlock, do you have any goggles? Lab coats? Protective gear of any kind?”

“Goggles are in the first drawer to the right of the sink. Gloves should be in the same drawer. I don’t own any lab coats,” Sherlock called out, putting some of his equipment on the counter and placing his Bunsen burner in the middle of the table. He rummaged around a drawer for some nichrome wire. “Could you get some distilled water and hydrochloric acid for me too? I’ll take charge of the dry chemicals.”

“If you don’t have any lab coats, what do you wear when you do experiments?” Molly chastised as she set the goggles and gloves at the table and rummaged around for some distilled water. “Sherlock, that’s irresponsible!”

“I’m careful,” Sherlock said offhandedly, rummaging in his chemical cabinet.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” Molly said warningly. “Being careful isn’t enough.”

“Oh, alright,” Sherlock sighed, taking out some of his dry chemicals and placing them on the table. He had to admit that Molly had a point, but he didn’t own any lab coats. “I have some dressing gowns,” he thought out loud. “Maybe if we wore them backwards, that would suffice. Be right back.” He hurried into his room and grabbed up the articles of clothing before going back to the kitchen and tossing one at Molly. “Here,” he said briskly. “The sleeves will be too long, just roll them up.”

They put on their makeshift lab coats and Molly laughed as she saw her reflection in the oven door. “Now I know what I need to get you for Christmas,” she teased Sherlock.

“Lab coats?” Sherlock guessed.

“How did you know?” Molly giggled. “Let’s see.” Fastening a pair of goggles on and fixing her hair a bit, she looked at the ceiling and counted off on her fingers. “Two for you in men’s sizes, just in case you ruin one. Sound good?”

Before he could reply, she continued. “Oh, and maybe one in women’s sizes too.”

“What for?” Sherlock asked, thoroughly confused.

“Oh, for if we’re going to perform more experiments together, of course,” Molly smiled and lightly punched him in the arm before reaching for the rubber gloves. “Let’s do some burning.”

Sherlock fired up the burner and began preparing the calcium. “Alright, let’s simulate what a mostly calcium dry chemical would do.” He took a nichrome wire and dipped the loop into the dry chemical, then told Molly, “Have a look,” and held the wire into the hottest part of the flame.

Almost immediately, the flame burned from bluish-orange to a distinct yellow-orange.

“Ah,” Molly said thoughtfully, gazing at the flame.

“Ready for the next one?” Sherlock asked, laying the wire aside and reaching for another loop. Molly nodded. “Now I’m going to contaminate some of the calcium with some dry sodium,” Sherlock said, adjusting his goggles as he measured out a very small bit of sodium into a sample of calcium. Then, he dipped the second nichrome wire into the chemical and thought for a second.

“Here,” he said, handing Molly the wire.

“Me?” Molly asked incredulously. “You want me to do it?”

“You’ve watched me,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure you’ll understand how to do it.”

“Alright,” Molly conceded and nervously took the wire. As Sherlock handed it to her, their fingers touched. They’d held hands before and kissed twice, but this felt more different... _intimate_ somehow. Molly jerked away, a little blush rising into her cheeks as she held the wire to the flame.

“It’s...it’s yellow. Really distinct yellow,” Molly said quietly, staring at the glowing flame. “What happened to the calcium?”

“See?” Sherlock said, shaking off his thoughts of earlier. “There _is_ calcium,” he pointed out. “It’s just contaminated by the sodium. Even a little bit can change it completely. I just think the investigators weren’t that careful when they conducted flame tests on the chemical.”

He rummaged around in another drawer. “Quick,” he said, pulling out a cobalt blue glass. “Take a look.”

She held the glass up. “Oh,” she said. “You’re _right._ So…”

“Definitely Mr. Boyle,” Sherlock agreed.

Their eyes met over the flame. Blue met brown through pairs of goggles, their owners clothed in reversed dressing gowns, a makeshift lab around them both.

Eventually, Sherlock coughed and looked down at the flame.

“Oh,” Molly gasped and jerked the wire out of the flame, setting it aside and shutting off the flame for Sherlock.

“Right,” Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling warmth creep over his neck. “Um. Yes.”

“Yoo-hoo,” a voice said from the living-room door. Molly and Sherlock both jerked towards the entrance to the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson curiously came in. “Good heavens! What are you two up to?”

Sherlock whipped his goggles off and hid them behind his back. “Nothing,” he said, knowing full well he sounded like a schoolboy being caught in the act of some little misdemeanor by one of his teachers.

“Yes, nothing,” Molly echoed, pulling off her goggles a bit clumsily and making all her hair come loose out of its ponytail and settle about her face. Sherlock smothered a giggle and Molly glared good-naturedly at him.

“Are you performing _experiments?_ ” Mrs. Hudson sighed, staring at the dining table.

Both of them bit their lips like schoolchildren. “Yes,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock! Is this really how you -”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Molly spoke up earnestly. “We met...erm, we met in a lab at Bart’s and performed some experiments together for some investigations. That’s how we got to know each other, and we’ve been performing experiments at the hospital since then. This time, we ate dinner and then we got into a little discussion about something or other, and we simply _had_ to test our conjectures out.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. This was the truth, just with the simple detail left out that during most of the experiments at Bart’s, Molly was a somewhat corporeal ghost who actively watched Sherlock perform his experiments and gave input while he tested various hypotheses.

“Well, if you’re done, there’s something that I thought would be nice for you two to do,” Mrs. Hudson said.

After cleaning up and putting all the supplies away, Molly and Sherlock found themselves on the living-room floor, in front of a…

“Christmas tree,” Sherlock observed weakly, the twinkling lights on the obviously fake, arboreal decoration popping in his vision.

Molly’s eyes were blown wide as she stared at the thing, brown eyes fixed on its green branches. Obviously she’d never had to decorate one of the things before.

“Is this what people usually do around this time?” she whispered to Sherlock behind her hand. “It all seems a bit...superfluous.”

“That’s why I’ve only ever put one up myself once,” Sherlock whispered back as Mrs. Hudson set a third box of decorations by Molly’s side, straightened up, and clapped her hands expectantly.

“Now,” Mrs. Hudson announced with the air of a magician pulling a white rabbit out of a top hat, “here are the decorations. It’s been awhile since they were last put up, so obviously they’ll be quite dusty. Now, I think that’s all. I’ll leave you to it!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock muttered as the kindly landlady hurried back downstairs. He turned to Molly. “Shall we?” he asked after an awkward silence, gesturing at the boxes.

Half an hour (and ten loud sneezes: Sherlock counted) later, they sat on the couch, staring at the newly decorated Christmas tree.

“Thanks,” Molly mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock looked down at his friend, whose face was pressing against his favorite purple shirt. She looked back up at him, the Christmas lights from across the almost-dim room reflecting in her wide brown eyes.

“Hm?” he hummed questioningly.

“Thanks for this,” Molly said quietly, lips quirking into a small smile as she gestured feebly around the flat. “I never imagined that I could do all of this.”

Sherlock’s throat closed as he remembered his conversation with Mycroft. If his brother found out the whole truth about Molly Hooper, there was a possibility that they could _never_ do this again.

“Molly…” he started out, his voice threatening to crack. He cleared his throat. “Molly…”

“What is it?” Molly mumbled softly.

Sherlock looked down at her again, lying peacefully against his shoulder. He couldn’t say this, not now, when they were basking in the glow of their time together.  
“Nothing,” Sherlock lied convincingly. “I forgot.”

“Middle age getting to you?” Molly teased.

Sherlock scowled. Molly sleepily giggled at him.

They fell asleep that way.

Together, leaned back on the couch, Molly curled against Sherlock’s body.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

* * *

 

“Oh, _hell._ ”

Mycroft’s forehead made contact once again with his hand as he exhaled heavily.

“Mycroft, seriously,” Anthea scolded from above him. “Can’t you -”

“Drop it?” Mycroft jerked his head up and glared at the CCTV feed from 221B Baker Street. Sherlock and Molly were asleep on the springy couch that Sherlock had selected himself when he moved into the flat. As they watched the screen, Sherlock sighed in his sleep and held Molly closer to his body. “I can’t, Anthea! It’s a matter of national security, and-”

“And as one of the officials charged with protecting the Commonwealth, you choose to do so by _closely monitoring your little brother and his girlfriend,_ ” Anthea yawned from her chair. “Is this truly the line of action you wish to pursue?”

Mycroft ignored her.

Anthea got up and sighed, massaging her back. “Mycroft. As your colleague, I recommend you to pursue a different line of action. I also recommend that you _not_ monitor your little brother and the friend he’s managed to pick up since John left him. Did you _see_ how they worked together in the kitchen? They worked like they were one person. They have _chemistry,_ Mycroft. He deserves someone like _her._ Whoever Molly is, whatever her past, she deserves _him._ If you, through your actions, harm Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes’s relationship…” Anthea straightened up suddenly and pointed at Mycroft, an uncharacteristic glare crossing her face.

“If you harm them, Mycroft, you will have committed the most _unforgivable_ of acts. _Mark my words._ ” She heaved for breath and balled her pointing finger into a fist.

Mycroft got up and turned off the display, sighing. He looked down at his shoes, bracing himself for what he was about to say next.

“Anthea…” he said slowly. “Anthea.”

“What.”

It wasn’t a question, and yet it was one.

Mycroft felt the need to reply.

“Initiate Operation Shadow.”

“ _No._ ”

“Anthea!”

“I _won’t!_ ”

He looked up.

Anthea’s eyes were blazing angrily like green flames, a glare fixed on her face. “I _won’t,_ Mycroft!”

Mycroft felt anger cloud his throat. “Anthea, that’s an _order!_ ”

“Shut up!” Her eyes filled with tears. “After all I tried to tell you? You really can’t listen, can you?”

“Anthea, it’s for the good of the Commonwealth!”

“And since when did you spout any verses about the bloody Commonwealth, eh?”

“Do it!”

“ _No!_ ” Anthea was sobbing now. “I _won’t._ Get another of your goddamn _goldfish_ to do it!” She scrabbled for her blazer on the floor and clumsily shrugged it over her dress, choking out sobs the whole time. “You never _listen_ to me anyway!”

“I _heard_ you just now, but I need to override it!”

“Not just _that!_ ” Anthea yelled. “You know, for a genius you can be extraordinarily _thick!_ I meant that I’ve been trying to tell you _so many things_ over the years we’ve worked together. I sacrificed my diplomatic career to centralize my work in British politics, to get a chance to work for the Commonwealth. They sent me to _you._ Do you know what Agent Leah said to me not five months after you hired me in? She said that no other PA had lasted as long as I had, that each and every person hired into the position had been either fired or had resigned within three months. And not long after that, I realized that not only did I want to work with the Commonwealth, I wanted _you!_ And I’ve been trying to tell you that for _years,_ and yet you _never listen!_ ”

Each word she hurled at him had pauses in between where she choked out sobs. Tears dripped down, speckling her blazer in places.

Mycroft began to panic. His colleague had a point. If he carried out Operation Shadow, he could lose his younger brother. Not only that, but he had a secret feeling that he would lose Anthea too. And he knew that he _couldn’t_ lose her. He’d known that he could _never_ lose his closest colleague ever since she’d taken a bullet for him in a mission that ended with him at her side in a hospital, her face freakishly pale against the white sheets.

But he’d said it. All he did was for Queen and country, after all.

“I’m leaving,” Anthea choked out, kicking open the door and dragging her briefcase with her. Her curls were awry, face red and slick with tears.

“Don’t -” Mycroft started painfully, rushing to the door.

“ _And don’t follow me,_ ” Anthea hissed furiously.

She pulled out her BlackBerry from her pocket and tossed it to the floor of the office they’d occupied. The screen cracked cleanly.

Mycroft only had time to gasp before the door slammed between them.

Alone, he bent down and picked up the abandoned, cracked mobile.

_I have lost everything._

He’d lost his younger brother’s trust. He’d lost his closest friend and colleague.

What more did he have to lose?

He turned the mobile on. Luckily, it was still in working order, if it wasn’t for the crack in the screen. That could be easily fixed.

He felt something jerk inside him as he logged in, a feeling that told him that this was somehow _wrong._

Steeling himself, he typed into the message field and sent it off.

_Attention all operatives. Initiate Operation Shadow._

Across London, at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson gently placed a blanket over Sherlock and Molly’s sleeping forms.

And the world continued to turn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was to be part of a longer chapter, but I decided to split the long chapter into two parts because the full chapter was, get this, _8,613_ words long. So! Here we are. Enjoy!

 

_17 December 2014_

_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!_

“Hrm?”

Sherlock peeked over his open flame towards his mobile.

_DI Lestrade, Mobile_

“Ah,” Sherlock exclaimed. _A case._

Sherlock turned off the open flame, pushed his goggles onto his forehead, and answered the call.

“Case?” he said instantly.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed through the mobile. “I have a case for you. None of us can figure it out. We need your help.”

“Right. Murder? Homicide? What’ve you got?”

“Murder. Please don’t look so happy about it, Sherlock, it’s actually quite bad. And _behave._ The victim’s family is here.”

“Ah, murder, brilliant,” Sherlock said. “Right. Text me the location and I’ll be there in half an hour. And next time you have a case, don’t call. Text. Ta.”

He disconnected the call excitedly and cleaned up the mess he’d made involving a human tongue and an open flame.

Drying off his freshly washed hands, he reached for his mobile, inspected the location Lestrade had sent him, and texted John.

_I presume today’s your off day. I have something important to tell you. Come immediately. SH_

A few minutes later, John called out, “What do you want, Sherlock?” from the sitting room.

“Ah, John! Good morning.” Sherlock strode out of his bedroom, shrugging a blazer on. “You’re surprisingly quick. Domestic life not quite your style?”

“No, Sherlock,” John chuckled in all his doctoral glory. “You were right, it’s my day off, but I’m using it to run errands. I was on my way to the market when you texted.”

“I’ve got a _scintillating_ case from Lestrade. Care to join? I promised him I’d be there in half an hour and it takes about ten minutes to get to the scene with the traffic around this time,” Sherlock offered, retying his shoe.

“Sorry, no,” John said apologetically. “Mary and I are going to start planning the wedding when I get back to the house. Another day, perhaps.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s...fine,” Sherlock waved off, suddenly realising that there _was_ another person he could contact to join him. “I’ll just contact another collaborator, then. No problem. Give Mary my regards, won’t you?” he pocketed his mobile and keys and briskly hurried down the stairs.

“Of course,” John replied, racing after him. “Oh, and by the way, Sherlock…”

“What is it?” Sherlock replied quickly, looking at his former flatmate as he tied his scarf about his neck and shrugged on his coat.

“You seem…” John narrowed his eyes, as if trying to pinpoint the word. “You seem _happier._ Kinder, even. What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing really,” Sherlock said airily. He wasn’t quite ready to talk about Molly with John yet.

“And you’ve got a Christmas tree up,” John observed, gesturing towards the stairs. “You never voluntarily put Christmas trees up unless someone’s forcing you, and I think Mrs. Hudson learned her lesson on that years ago.” Suddenly, John grinned. “Is there someone you’re seeing that you haven’t told me about?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, staring ahead at the wallpaper, hoping the dimness of the foyer hid the warmth spreading across his cheeks.

“Aha, you _have,_ ” John chortled. “Wait ‘til I tell Mary.”

“You tell Mary and I’ll make sure you can’t get into 221B again,” Sherlock glared at his friend.

“Ah, don’t worry, Sherlock, your secret’s safe,” John chuckled heartily. “Well, see you ‘round, I suppose.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said absentmindedly as John closed the door behind him.

Sherlock exhaled heavily and dialled a number on his mobile.

The phone rang once, twice, three times before the recipient of the call picked up.

“Ah, Molly,” Sherlock said. “You’re off today?”

“Hello, Sherlock! I’m off today, yes. And bored, and wondering what to do. You know, I just baked some muffins early this morning. I had two for my breakfast. The flat smells heavenly right now. I wish you were here to smell it.”

Sherlock smiled. “Er, Molly, would you like to come on a case with me?”

“Ooh, _yes,”_ Molly said. “I’d be glad to. I’m quite bored today.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a bit,” Sherlock said and exited the foyer onto Baker Street. Raising his hand for a cab, he added, “Oh, and wait outside your flat building when you’re ready.”

“Would you like me to save you a muffin?”

Sherlock silently debated with himself. “Sure,” he conceded as a cab pulled up and he slid into it.

“Brilliant! I’ll get a box. Alright, gotta dash. Bye!”

“Bye,” he said and ended the call, closing the cab door behind him.

He told the cabbie Molly’s address, and they were off.

As Sherlock had surmised, the traffic wasn’t so bad, and they pulled up outside Molly’s building within a few minutes. Molly was waiting outside, a white box in her hands. Her cheerful striped scarf and excited smile stood out from the bleak street on the equally bleak December morning.

Sherlock told the cabbie to wait for him. He opened the door, poked his head out, and waved frantically at Molly.

“Hello!” she called out happily and ran across the street, flinging herself into the cab. “Good morning,” she said respectfully to the cabbie. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, turning to him once he’d finished giving the cabbie the address a street away from the crime scene. “I didn’t know if you wanted one or two muffins, so I brought two just in case.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He had to admit that his Molly was quite scatterbrained at times. “I just wanted one. Sorry.”

“Oh no, that’s fine,” Molly said. “Perhaps for an afternoon treat. We could split.” Satisfied, she leaned back. “So, what’s the case?”

“Murder. Victim’s family on the scene, apparently unsolvable by the likes of Scotland Yard. I hope it’s interesting,” Sherlock rattled off.

“Ooh,” Molly said. “Oh dear, I know I shouldn’t be like that when we’re solving cases that involve death, but ooh…” She lost herself in thought for a few seconds. “It’s so interesting, though, I mean what would compel someone to take the life of a fellow human? It’s all quite interesting to think about. I mean...I sound quite _morbid,_ but that’s the truth, I suppose, and the truth is the truth.”

Sherlock sniffed a little laugh in response. “I see what you mean.”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Sherlock: a suggestion Mrs. Hudson had given to him not long after Molly had cheerfully waved goodbye a week before.

“Say, Molly,” he suggested. “Mrs. Hudson suggested that I give a Christmas party at my flat for my... _friends._ ” The last word still sounded strange out of his mouth, but Sherlock passed over that and moved on. “Would you like to…”

“Help you set it up?” Molly clapped her hands excitedly. “Yes, I’d very much like that! I’ve wanted to meet your friends as a living person for so long! I mean, John always saw through me, but that was probably because he hadn’t been able to see me like _you_ did. And you’ve told me that he’s gotten engaged. I’d love to meet them both. You’ve also told me you had a _brother._ I’ve never seen him before. And of course, I’ve seen Lestrade pass through the morgue a couple of times, but I was always invisible then so obviously he’s never seen me.”

Sherlock saw the cabbie pale slightly and slide the partition shut. He stifled a laugh.

“Well then, it’s settled,” Sherlock said. “I’m throwing a party.”

“And you should play the _violin,_ ” Molly said excitedly. Sherlock had played the violin for Molly precisely _once:_ it was a concerto that held good memories for him and reminded him of sunflowers. “Do you know any Christmas music?”

“Yup,” Sherlock replied. “Plenty of it: it’s quite useful for undercover cases. I sneak into a get-together as a hired musician and spy on the guests while playing my violin. It’s an easy way to infiltrate, and I get paid to do it.”

“Wow!”

They pulled up in front of a coffee shop a few blocks from the crime scene. Sherlock paid the cabbie and the pair took their leave.

Stretching out her back, Molly sighed as Sherlock waited patiently, awkwardly holding the muffin box. Suddenly, Molly straightened and grinned cheerfully. “Let’s go solve a murder,” she announced excitedly, taking hold of the hand not holding the muffin box and dragging him off.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Sherlock asked, a note of amusement clouding his tone.

“Nope,” Molly called out, her breath clouding the crisp December air. “Left or right?”

“We’re going the wrong way,” Sherlock snickered.

“Alright then, _genius,_ we’re turning round,” Molly glowered and dragged him the other way.

They went a few blocks before stopping at a street corner to catch their breath.

“That warmed me up,” Sherlock commented as Molly let go of his hand to scrape some of her reddish-brown hair out of her face.

“Yes,” Molly agreed. “Shall we move on?” she asked when they both had stopped panting.

Sherlock nodded and they proceeded to the crime scene.

Crossing the street and proceeding on, they found that the place was totally empty: no cars, no people milling about. To make matters worse, it was totally silent. Every step Molly’s ankle boots made on the pavement loudly clicked throughout the street.

“Is this it?” Molly whispered anxiously. “I’m not sure I like this place.”

Sherlock checked both ways for cars and stepped into the middle of the street. Molly followed him, letting go of his hand and clutching her bag protectively. “Sherlock?”

“There should be officers here,” Sherlock murmured, checking around the area. “Stay close to me, Molly. I’m not sure I like this place either.”

He handed the box to Molly, who tucked it under her arm carefully. Sherlock took hold of Molly’s hand, then he pulled out his phone with his other hand to text Lestrade.

“There _really_ should be officers here,” Sherlock murmured to Molly. “I-”

“ _PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”_

The bag and the muffin box fell to the pavement.

Molly screamed as several men and women in full protective gear slammed out of a door and blocked the street several feet in front of them. Sherlock sharply inhaled and jerked his head around as more agents blocked the street behind them. As he watched, agents moved to block alleys and doorways.

They were trapped.

“What the hell?” Sherlock exclaimed. Molly and Sherlock stepped forward and the line of agents in front of them raised their guns. Sherlock gasped and flung himself in front of Molly. “Don’t hurt her,” he warned the agents.

“Move away from the suspect, Mr. Holmes,” one of the agents barked harshly.

“The _suspect?_ ” Molly squeaked from behind him. “Sherlock -”

Sherlock jerked his head around to stare at Molly. Her eyes were blown wide and _scared._ And he knew that she knew _nothing,_ absolutely nothing, about why they were being held gunpoint in the middle of the street.

“Move beside the suspect, kneel, and raise your arms,” the same agent ordered loudly. “You have ten seconds.”

Sherlock stepped to Molly’s side. “Raise your arms,” he murmured as the agent counted down. “If we cooperate, I think they’ll listen.” Thoughts raced through his head as he and Molly knelt, side-by-side, and raised their arms in unison. Molly stared straight ahead at the agents, face pale, eyes afraid. Sherlock was thinking, hard...and then it came to him.

These agents were working with Mycroft.

Mycroft was trying to capture Molly.

_The damn meddler._

And what was his brother going to do next? Interrogate his Molly for being...what, a _foreign spy?_ That was what he was insinuating during the talk at the Diogenes Club, wasn’t he?

Sherlock groaned in dismay. This was going to be a longer day than he anticipated.

“Good,” the agent barked. “Take her.”

Sherlock put down his arms and was immediately trapped in the sights of about four or five gunmen. “No!” he said loudly, his voice echoing up and down the street. “You can’t take Molly!” He looked at his friend and felt his insides wrench.

Her hands were held high up, she was facing straight ahead, focusing on the horizon.

A single tear was running down her face. Sherlock wanted to wipe it away, to pull her close, to tell her that this was all a misunderstanding and she would be okay…

Several agents strode forward and roughly grabbed Molly by the elbows, forcing her to stand up. A female agent emotionlessly checked Molly for weapons, then shook her head at the head agent. Another agent took out a cloth and blindfolded Molly.

Trapped under the sights of various weapons, Sherlock was powerless as several agents handcuffed his Molly and herded her away.

She was silent the whole time, most likely out of pure fright. Sherlock was no religious man, but he remembered a Biblical allusion that had he had heard numerous times, but never understood until now.

_Like a lamb being led to the slaughter._

A single police car drove out of an alleyway, and the agents shoved Molly into it, but not before she opened her mouth and said the last words he heard her say on that bleak street.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” she screamed. “ _Sherlock, where are you?!_ ” Then, she was forced into the car and the door slammed shut. The agents around Sherlock took their guns off of him. Sherlock staggered to his feet and ran after the police car.

“Stop!” he pleaded. “Please. I’m Sherlock Holmes. That’s my assistant. We were supposed to solve a case. Please, let her go!”

The agents ignored him.

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” he yelled. “Let her go and we could sort it out!”

He felt around his pockets for his mobile and took it out to dial Lestrade, but his hands were shaking too hard. He couldn’t even turn it on. Shoving it back into his pocket disgustedly, he stepped forward and yelled. “Please,” he pleaded. “Let her go!”

The driver's door shut and the car began to speed off, lights and sirens full blast.

Sherlock abandoned all pretense and ran after the car, as fast as he could, shouting to _LET HER GO_ all the way. He felt something creep down his cheek: was it a tear?

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

His vision blurred as he crumpled to his knees, reached up, and yanked a tranquilizing dart out of his neck.

“ _Damnit,_ ” he slurred as his hand went slack.

He collapsed to the pavement, feeling irrepressibly woozy, but not before a single thought ran through his mind.

_I have lost everything._

_Everything._

* * *

 

“Molly?”

Sherlock blinked open his eyes.

He was standing on the pavement instead of crumpled on it, which was a start. Secondly, he realized after a few seconds that he was truly...how did Molly say it all those years ago?... _a man out of his time._

Somehow, Sherlock had wound up being hurled into 1897 for the second time in his life, though, he readily admitted, _with much less vomiting_.

Sherlock gaped down at himself. He was wearing a three-piece suit with...was that a _black armband_ around the blazer arm? Sherlock’s gloved fingers went up to pick at it. _Who has died?_

_I did._

Sherlock practically jumped at the voice in his head, a voice that hadn’t done so in two long years.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” he exclaimed crossly at the voice of Molly Hooper in his head. “You’re alive and in 2014.”

_Alive? Really?_

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Ye-es,” he said. “You were a ghost, and then in late 2009, you met me.” Somehow he knew that he shouldn’t mention his name quite yet. He couldn’t change history, after all. It was 1897. Molly didn’t seem to know him yet in this Victorian London. And she certainly hadn’t recognized him when they first met in that lab in 2009. Rewriting history didn’t sound like a good idea to pursue.

_Unbelievable. How?_

“Don’t you _know,_ Molly? Don’t you _remember_?” Sherlock was beginning to panic. What had happened to his friend? Why didn’t she recognize him? “How are you speaking to me if you haven’t somehow met me?”

 _Well, how_ am _I supposed to bloody know?!_ Her voice was so bitter, Sherlock could hardly recognize it. _My future self is probably the one who met you. Not me! I have_ no _future! Now I am stuck in the hospital where I died while my body is put on display at the church that stands before you._

For the first time, Sherlock looked up.

He _was_ standing in front of a church.

 _I have no future,_ the Molly in his head whispered, voice trembling. _I cannot even disappear. I tried. I tried so hard. I want to see my father again. But I am forced to stay here, even though I have no future._

Sherlock shook his head and climbed the steps. _Is your viewing today?_ He asked the voice in his head. _Can I attend?_

_Yes. If you must._

That explained the black armband on his arm. But still...why was he here?

He gently pushed the heavy church door open and entered the stifling silence.

The church was only filled about halfway, the people clustered in groups around the pews. Some wept quietly, others stared straight ahead. Most of the people in the church were women. A small number of men stood guard near the front pews as people slowly came to pay their respects.

And at the front, in front of the altar…

Sherlock reached up and took off his hat.

A wooden coffin lay in state on a table, the lid opened wide. Flowers were arranged around it.

Sherlock swallowed heavily.

 _This is it,_ Molly said gloomily in his head. _This is my end._

“Can you shut up for a second?” Sherlock growled quietly, something jerking in his chest. He knew that the voice in his head was Molly, but this was not the Molly he knew. The Molly he knew wasn’t jaded, bitter. The Molly he knew would face whatever setbacks presented themselves to her with a stiff upper lip and a stalwart disposition.

Hearing nothing but silence from the voice in his head, Sherlock stepped down the aisle slowly, walking towards the coffin. From what he remembered of the last time he’d dipped into the past, nobody could see nor hear him. But he stepped carefully, raising and lowering each foot as gently as if he was creeping around a crime scene.

Eventually, he made it to the altar. Two kneelers were set up at the side of the coffin, the kind one would see in old movies and old cathedrals. None were occupied.

Sherlock crept up to the coffin and peeked inside, pursing his lips and clutching his hat closer to him as if it could provide him some comfort in this tumultuous sea.

He steeled himself for what he would see.

Molly Hooper lay among the flowers and lining of the coffin. Apparently the undertakers had judged her dress worthy to be buried in, so she was wearing the argentine-silver dress he’d always seen her wear, and the dress she’d apparently died in.

Sherlock slowly breathed in and out over his friend’s body.

Silently, Sherlock guessed that the coffin was oak, and that it measured around six to seven feet. Molly _was_ exceedingly short, after all.

Molly’s eyelashes cast shadows over her cheeks. She was much too pale. Her hair was too dull. _This is not Molly. Not the one I know._

Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist and looked away. _Damn._ He couldn’t do this.

He looked back down. Over her chest lay an arrangement of purple flowers. _Anemone._ What kind of idiot had arranged these flowers? From what he knew (he had pretended to be a florist obsessed with flower symbolism for an undercover case once), anemone could signify fading, lost hope. What kind of idiot had arranged these flowers to echo the thoughts of a woman who was already dead?

And then he realized.

“This never happened,” he said loudly.

He looked up, and the ghost of Molly Hooper was standing across from him.

“You are correct,” the ghost acknowledged. “This never happened. I imagined it would be like this.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No,” Molly said quietly. “It was a quiet service. Not in this church. It was at my grandparents’ estate. My mother moved in after my father died and I went to London. Only a few people came to my funeral.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“Because everybody else was scared to come,” Molly replied steadily. “Scared that the same thing that happened to me...would happen to them.”

Sherlock looked back down at Molly’s body.

“I do not know who you are, or why you came here,” Molly continued. “But you do not belong here. Something must have brought you here.” The last sentence was uttered accusingly.

“Right, it isn’t my fault I fell asleep and woke up in a dead woman’s hallucination of Victorian London,” he snapped back.

“Well, _something_ must have brought you here,” Molly repeated quite obstinately.

Sherlock thought hard.

 _I have no future,_ he remembered this echo of Molly saying to him. _I have no future!_

Sherlock stared down at the flowers in Molly’s cold, pale hands. _Anemone. Fading or lost hope._

“Hope,” he suggested.

“Sorry?” The ghost looked quite confused.

“You told me you had no future. These flowers tell me you have lost hope,” Sherlock gestured down into the coffin. “I think I’m here to tell you something...something important.”

He looked back down at Molly’s peacefully arranged face. She almost looked like she was sleeping.

Sherlock remembered that night in his flat, a very much alive Molly Hooper asleep by his side on the couch. She’d fallen asleep about ten minutes before he did, but _oh,_ those ten minutes...he’d undone her plait and ran his hand through her vibrantly red-brown hair, kinked in places from being in a plait the whole day...he’d smiled faintly as she breathed softly and steadily, her delicate eyelashes brushing against her cheeks...He’d woken her up the next day gently, with a softly spoken, “Molly…” and a hand rubbed over her shoulder. And she’d opened her eyes, and looked into his…and…

This Molly was dead. There was another Molly in another time, in a world very different from this one, and he _needed_ to get to her. But before that, he had a feeling that he needed to do _something_ for this Molly that would meet him in about one century’s time.

“Hold out hope,” Sherlock said. He remembered something the future version of Molly had said to him, the night he’d come back from the dead and realized that someone else had done the same. He echoed her now. “Hold out hope, Molly. I know it might seem bleak now…” he struggled for words. How would _Molly_ say this? “But trust me, when it all adds up, if you hold out and _wait for it…_ ” He breathed in and out. “If you just _wait for it._ Time will pass.. _._ ”

He looked straight at the ghost’s shocked face and barrelled on, knowing his time in this weird world was limited. Best to go out with a bang. “In exactly 112 years, you’ll see me again. Trust me, things _will_ change.” Immediately, he noticed his fingertips beginning to dissolve. “ _Trust me,_ ” he gasped as the floor fell out from under him.

“Wait!” Molly's ghost screamed. “ _Who are you?!_ ”

Sherlock fell, and fell, and fell, and someone caught him and lowered him onto...the pavement? No? His bed.

Blinking his eyes open for the second time that day, Sherlock groaned and murmured, “Molly?”

Slowly, his surroundings came into focus.

“Oh, _hell,_ ” he said loudly.

Sherlock was wrapped, fully clothed, in his own bed.

Suddenly, everything came flooding back to him: the case, John, the muffins, the street. The agents. The guns.

Molly being dragged away.

Handcuffed.

Blindfolded.

Screaming for Sherlock.

And then the dart.

“Oh, _hell,”_ he moaned, clapping a hand to his forehead.

He swung his legs out of bed and ran into his sitting room, leaving his bed unmade behind him.

Molly had been captured on merely speculative grounds.

He needed to find her.

Before the authorities could do anything, _anything_ to his friend.

The first thing Sherlock did was grab his mobile and send out a text to his Homeless Network.

_Emergency callout! Missing person, presumed taken by authorities and mistaken for anti-British intelligence. Text in any sightings of police cars over the last…_

Sherlock looked at the clock and groaned. He’d been knocked out for a full _two hours._

_...two hours. Search area includes but is not limited to Scotland Yard area. Emergency callout! SH_

He hit _Send_ and shrugged on his coat, tying his scarf around his neck.

His mobile buzzed.

The message was from one of Sherlock’s most trusted operatives, Ingrid Rhoda. She was a sprightly Southeast Asian medical student who roomed with her friend Lily Choi in Chelsea. The two childhood friends had agreed to work with Sherlock because both wanted to help him and both needed the extra cash.

_Mr. Holmes- Alerting you to sighting of lone police car entering Scotland Yard around two hours ago. Lights and sirens both on. Thanks. Ingrid_

Seconds later, he received another text. This time it was Lily.

_Mr. Holmes- Sighting affirmed. Was with Ingrid at the time. All description correct. Thanks. Lily_

Sherlock dashed off a quick reply.

_Thanks to both of you. Payment to be sent to home address shortly. SH_

A new anger smouldering in his chest, Sherlock pivoted neatly, ran out of his flat and burst into a wintry Baker Street, clouds threatening to unleash snow upon the people rushing about.

_You caught me once, Molly. You saved me._

_This time, I'll repay you._

_This time, I'll be the one to catch you when you fall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter goes up soon. Keep your eyes peeled. Okay. I'm not ever saying that again. That evoked some very strange imagery.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While planning this fanfic, I actually drew out a map of all the movement done in this chapter. (Spoiler alert, it's a lot and it's confined to a small place.) Maybe I could post it on my Tumblr. Actually, that's what I'll do. So keep an eye out for that. It was fun to make.  
> That aside, enjoy this chapter!

Sherlock tossed a few notes to the cabbie and climbed out of the vehicle. 

Anger made his ears buzz like a swarm of angry bees, stingers poised and ready to strike.

He slammed the cab door shut and stormed into Scotland Yard. If his presumptions were correct, Molly would either be in the holding cells or the interrogation rooms. He’d guessed the interrogation rooms were more likely.

The cab ride had given him an opportunity to think over how his brother had orchestrated the operation to capture Molly. Sherlock thought he'd figured it out top to bottom. And it was definitely...how did the Americans like to say it... _ below the belt.  _

Positively fuming, Sherlock shoved his way up to the interrogation rooms. He knew very well where they were: he'd been involved with interrogating obstinate suspects numerous times. Each suspect had gone in smug and knowing and had come out with their pride broken at Sherlock’s adept hands. 

He hoped nothing of the sort would happen to Molly. 

Sherlock began to sprint. 

He finally got to the corridor with all the interrogation rooms. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and listened carefully. He thought he heard sobbing from inside interrogation room 4.  _ Female, late 30s.  _

He'd found Molly. 

Sherlock sprinted to room number 4 and slammed the door open. 

What he saw threatened to pull his chest apart. 

Molly was still handcuffed, but she was now sitting at a table and chair bolted to the floor. The cuffs were as tight as they could get around her thin wrists. Her hands were covering her face as she cried. 

Sergeant Donovan and DI Lestrade stood awkwardly against a wall. A technician stood by, managing...was that a  _ lie detector?  _

“You do realise that those don't work?” Sherlock announced angrily, hearing his voice echo throughout the little room. “Not only have you taken a person into custody on  _ speculation alone _ , you use a damn  _ lie detector  _ on your suspect. Look at the great Scotland Yard. What the  _ hell  _ are you thinking?”

Molly gasped and looked up. “Sherlock!” she hoarsely whispered, panic and relief filling her eyes in equal parts. “What are you doing here?”

“ _ Molly,”  _ Sherlock breathed and started towards her. 

Lestrade and Donovan rushed forward and pinned him back. 

“Let me  _ go _ ,” Sherlock hissed angrily. 

“Sorry, mate,” Lestrade whispered. “I really am. But I'm obeying higher orders.”

“ _ Whose? _ ” Sherlock spat. 

Suddenly, Mycroft walked into Sherlock's line of vision, blocking Molly’s view of him.

“ _ Mycroft! _ ” Sherlock spat again, tore his way out of Lestrade and Donovan’s grip, and grabbed hold of his brother’s coat lapels, maneuvering him quickly and pinning him against the wall. Lestrade yelled in shock, but Mycroft held up a hand much too lazily.

“Don’t mind him, he’s all excited,” Mycroft said slowly.

“The hell I am,” Sherlock growled sarcastically. He turned his head. “By the way, Molly dear, this is my brother. I feel you’ve already met.”

She let out a little gasp of shock. He turned back to his older brother, a glare firmly fixed on his face. “God, Mycroft. You weren’t satisfied with holding my...holding Molly under suspicion of being an international spy, weren’t you? You wanted to...how did a certain James Moriarty once say it?...you wanted to  _ burn the heart  _ out of her, too.”

“How long was the sedative supposed to last?” Mycroft asked the technician calmly.

“Eight to twelve hours,” the agent replied boredly.

“And how long  _ did  _ it last?”

“Two hours.”

“Tut, tut,” Mycroft said calmly, staring back at Sherlock. “This is not your place, Sherlock. I would recommend that you -”

“Leave?” Sherlock snapped. “No. Not until I get some  _ satisfaction.  _ And believe me, brother dear, when I say that I am still far from that point.” He released Mycroft roughly, letting him dust himself off.

Donovan and Lestrade came back and hauled him to his original place. Mycroft took up a position just behind Molly’s chair.

She looked absolutely  _ afraid. _

Sherlock waved Donovan and Lestrade off. After a nod from Mycroft, they uncertainly let go of him and stepped away.

“Let’s begin,” Sherlock said smoothly. His anger was serving him at least some good today. The rush of adrenaline he was getting from pure fury was making each of the words he needed to say just  _ click  _ into place. 

Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that needed just another piece to bring the picture together. 

Pieces clicking on a chessboard, sealing a king’s fate.

A steady set of tweezers, plucking a plastic bit out of an Operation board game.

The brothers began to circle around the table as Sherlock paced, raising his gloved hand and counting off on his fingers. “Let’s review. So we can imagine you, gazing down at your little CCTV feeds, scanning the streets of London for anything suspicious, when you notice me sitting on a bench in a park, enjoying coffee with a  _ woman.  _ Now, you don’t usually see me in such company, so you zoom in and look closer. As you do so, something occurs to you. 

_ “Well,  _ you think.  _ Why don’t I take a screen-capture of this woman’s face? I might need it someday.  _ So you do so.”

Molly was staring at them as they paced around the table.

“Not long afterwards, you hear of a listing for a mysterious pocketbook with British credentials inside from a pawn shop owner. Probably American, but quite possibly Eastern European. You’ve already heard me tell you that I lost my pocketbook during  _ Lazarus.  _

_ “Oh,  _ you think.  _ It must be Sherlock’s.  _ On impulse, you send for the pocketbook. Once it gets to England, you open it and find a curious item: a picture of a woman.  _ Hm,  _ you think.  _ This woman looks familiar.  _

“And you make the connection between the woman in the photo you’ve just found to the woman in the CCTV feed who was sitting next to me. The only problem is that the photo you’ve just pulled out of my fake pocketbook is a copy of an old photo from more than 100 years ago. Am I right so far?”

Mycroft nodded haltingly. 

“You’re confused. How does a woman in London mysteriously have the same face as a woman who appeared in a photo more than a 100 years ago, and how did your little brother get tangled up with her association? So you begin monitoring her movements. You learn her name. You learn where she works. You comb the public records, and find that she shares the name, occupation, parents, degree with a woman who died...let me see, the 31st of October, 1897.”

Lestrade gasped.

“That’s right, Gavin,” Sherlock said, gaze flitting to Lestrade in the corner. “Mycroft here begins to suspect foul play.”

“My name’s  _ Greg, _ ” Lestrade said loudly, quite put out.

“Whatever. Already deleted it,” Sherlock waved off. “Back to the point. So you’ve made your little discovery. What do you do about it? Instead of asking me straight, you call me into your office, show me the two photographs, and talk  _ code.  _ You  _ imply, insinuate,  _ that the woman you saw in both pictures is somehow an international spy working for an enemy government and is not to be trusted.”

He stopped. Now Sherlock was directly behind Molly’s chair. Sherlock bit his lip and laid a hand on Molly’s shoulder. She jumped a bit, but he massaged her shoulder reassuringly, trying to get her to calm herself. Soon, she relaxed a bit and sighed.

Sherlock found the strength to continue.

“I storm out. By now, you’re more than convinced that my Molly Hooper is a government enemy. But how do you take control of this?”

Sherlock removed his hand and came to stand directly in front of Mycroft.

“First, you plan. You threaten Lestrade to give me a case that doesn’t exist. That murder he told me about? It wasn’t real. It never happened. You needed an excuse to lure me to the spot.

“But what about the assistant? You know I usually bring John on cases...oh wait, except for part of the massive Underground case last month. That time I brought...lo and behold, the very woman you seek to capture! So, knowing this, how do you push an unwitting Sherlock Holmes to make the text that will lure Molly Hooper to capture on a desolate street?  _ You get to John first.” _

Lestrade looked outraged.

“There’s no way you could let John in on a secret like this. I love the man, but he can’t keep a secret. So you turn to someone else, someone John would never suspect. His  _ soon-to-be wife,  _ Mary Morstan.”

From the shock on Mycroft’s face, Sherlock was right.

“I knew Mary had a past John didn’t know about from the start,” Sherlock said smugly. “I deduced it the moment I saw her. But I was convinced then, and even more so today, that in that past you lurked somewhere. Perhaps she was a collaborator of yours back in the day? She looks the perfect picture of a soon-to-be domestic woman, not the sort for undercover work, and she looks like she’s retired from the agent’s life. But she’s still mentally capable of what you set her up to do: trick John into declining to solve cases for me. And so she does. But she doesn’t know what you’re really planning to do: if she did, I feel she’s the sort of person who would stop you  _ immediately.  _ But going on from that, we have our plan.

“And the stage is set, the curtain rises, and we are ready to begin.”

“You amass government resources. Hire twenty or so agents to capture someone based on  _ pure speculation and speculation alone.  _ There is no real evidence to support the claim that Molly Hooper is a spy, or an agent. So  _ why, why  _ are you doing this?”

Sherlock pretended to search the air for an answer.

“Ah, Mycroft,” Sherlock waggled a finger in his brother’s face. “Tut, tut to you.  _ Sentiment.  _ You’re trying to warn me against  _ sentiment  _ yet again.”

Mycroft swallowed.

“Sentiment!” Sherlock called loudly, clapping his gloved hands and circling the table again. Mycroft stood still, looking a bit chagrined after him.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock said again. “The very thing you’ve warned me against for  _ years.  _ You warned me about sentiment after Redbeard died. You warned me about sentiment after Grandmére died. You warned me about sentiment just after I welcomed John into the flat I worked so hard to find. You looked on as I flatly told Irene Adler about sentiment. And yet, here I am.” Sherlock spread his hands. “Sentimental. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, brother.  _ Christmas! _ A time of sentiment.” He whirled around and addressed the back wall for a bit. “A time I used to hate, before I met Dr. John Hamish Watson!” He paused for dramatic effect and whirled back around.

“Or so you  _ think _ .”

Mycroft stared back at him. Obviously he was having trouble reining in his emotions, for Sherlock could detect a hint of shock written in his eyes.

“Because I have known Molly Hooper more than you know,” Sherlock said, his voice low and swaying as he slowly walked up behind Molly’s chair. “I knew her long before Mike Stamford dragged John Watson into my lab. I knew her from the moment her silver dress rustled beside me and I knew that even though I was in an empty lab in  _ St. Bart’s Hospital  _ of all places, there was someone watching, waiting for me to acknowledge them, waiting for me to say that she  _ mattered,  _ that she  _ counted. _ ”

He came up behind Molly for the second time and placed a hand on her shoulder again.

“Because, Mycroft,” he said calmly. “Marie Eleanor Hooper  _ was  _ shot to death on the street in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital on the 31st of October, 1897. But that  _ wasn’t the end. _ ”

_ This is my end,  _ the Molly then had said gloomily in his head. But he knew that it wasn’t the end for her: far from it. In fact, she would be able to get a second chance at what she’d wanted:  _ life.  _

“Molly stayed with me all the way from that moment when her ghost...yes, a  _ ghost,  _ Mycroft, I assure you!...first became visible to me in 2009. She stayed with me through everything, through the Adler situation, the Moriarty problem and everything in between. And that wasn’t the end.”

Lestrade’s mouth had fallen open. Sherlock ignored him.

“And when I fell from the roof of Bart’s that day, she was there too. You asked me how I survived the fall. I didn’t tell you exactly how then. I lied that I’d strategically landed somewhere, and basically gave you a bunch of lies. I survived the fall because of Molly.”

Mycroft looked  _ really shocked  _ now. This was interesting.

“You heard me right, Mycroft Holmes, it was Molly, all  _ Molly.  _ She put me right.  _ She literally caught me.  _ I thought the effort of it all had taken her away from me. But I was wrong. And that  _ still  _ wasn’t the end.

“Because Molly got a second chance,” Sherlock argued. “Heaven knows how, but Molly got a second chance at something she never got to experience. Because she  _ loved life  _ and desperately  _ wanted  _ to experience a life she'd never really been able to experience. She got a second chance at this great big mess called  _ life... _ and she’s here now.”

Mycroft stared at him. Then he did something that Sherlock expected fully. He laughed.

“Very funny, brother, but addicts can’t be cured.”

“Mycroft.” His voice echoed through the room dangerously. Mycroft stopped laughing and looked at Sherlock. “Look at me, straight in the eyes. That lie detector you hauled in here is just as worthless as that knockoff watch on your technician’s wrist.” 

The gangly technician stared down at his watch and self-consciously hid it behind his back, a blush starting to creep across his cheeks. 

“I know why you’re here, Mycroft. You always prided yourself on detecting lies, did you not? Even  _ I _ could never find my way around you. That’s where your suspicion of Molly started, albeit without you even knowing. When I lied to you about how I survived the fall, the first seed of suspicion was planted. And when I started to take Molly with me through London, the seed grew into a choking weed. And there it is, the fruits of your suspicion. Congratulations, Mycroft.”

He let silence spread through the room. “You’ve wasted government time and resources, traumatized a woman who you should never have suspected as a government spy. And all for the purpose of trying to warn me about sentiment.”

He took his hand away from Molly’s shoulder and put both his hands behind his back. “So you, Mycroft Holmes, know just how  _ powerful  _ your lie-detecting skills can be. And you, Mycroft Holmes, are going to look me in the eye and tell the rest of the room if the words I am going to say are lies. Understand, brother dear?”

Mycroft held his chin high, but he nodded.

“Good.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Mycroft, I am not on drugs, nor do I have any in my possession. Also, I want to give you the one thing that ran through my mind when the first ghost I ever saw appeared to me in a lab so long ago.  _ When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.  _ Molly Hooper is, quite strangely, a  _ truth.  _ And I am willing to do whatever it takes to protect her.”

Mycroft stared at him, something curdling in the back of his steely eyes. Then, Sherlock’s brother let his emotions slam back into their usual trap, and Sherlock saw nothing.

“Well?” Lestrade asked hoarsely. “What is it?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and took out a BlackBerry deftly from his trouser pocket. He turned it on and typed in something before turning the mobile around to show Sherlock, Molly, and the rest of the room the message he’d sent out.

_ Attention all operatives. Abort Operation Shadow. MH _

Sherlock leaned back triumphantly. “Thank you,” he said to Mycroft sincerely, and he was surprised that he really  _ meant  _ it.

Lestrade took out a key from his pocket and unlocked Molly’s handcuffs. Donovan knelt by his side and placed a hand on Molly’s shoulder.

“I’m...we’re very sorry,” Donovan murmured to her.

Molly turned to her. Brown eyes met brown eyes. Then Molly stretched her newly-freed hand up and clasped Donovan’s hand, a faint smile crossing her face.

Sherlock stepped away and nearly ran into Mycroft.

“We’re taking her to Baskerville for testing,” Mycroft told Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He faintly remembered a mine explosion, a hallucinogenic gas filling a clearing, the face of Jim Moriarty looming out of the shadows.

“No!” Sherlock said much too loudly. All heads in the room swiveled towards him. He nodded apologetically and dropped his tone. “No, Mycroft,” he whispered firmly. “Not Baskerville.”

“Only for a few days at most, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied quietly. “We need to have Molly put down in public records as...what she is. We can’t just keep it a secret.”

“And how am I supposed to trust you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft gazed at Sherlock for a long second. “Bee,” he whispered almost imperceptibly.

Sherlock stiffened...and then relaxed and nodded. A memory came to him from far away, a memory of children playing in a clearing with a red dog and a bicycle, a memory of children pretending to be pirates.  _ A promise, whispered under the trees. _ It was a memory that Sherlock only took out when he was at his lowest.

“Go back to Baker Street, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. “Go back to Baker Street...please.”

Sherlock stared at him for a while, then nodded again. He’d said all he needed to. Sometimes one had to decide which battles to fight.

He whirled away and went to Molly. Lestrade and Donovan quietly left the interrogation room. Mycroft went to talk to the technician with the lie detector.

“Molly,” he said quietly.

“You  _ came, _ ” she breathed, wide brown eyes gazing up at him.

Sherlock held Molly at arm’s length for a second before quickly pulling her right into his arms and resting his chin over her head. “I’m sorry you had to go through this,” he whispered into her hair.

“If it means we can carry on our adventures in peace, I think...I think it’ll have been worth it,” Molly mumbled into his scarf. “They said they’re going to take me to a place called Baskerville. So they can fully examine how I became a ghost, and let the record show that I lived in two eras of British history. They offered me a job as a historian for the government,” she whispered, pulling away to stare up into his face. “They offered to make me a historian.”

“And did you accept?” Sherlock asked.

Silence.

“No,” Molly replied. “I still love being a pathologist. It’s what I’ve waited to do for 115 years and I’m not giving it up any time soon.”

Sherlock grinned at his determined friend.

“By the way,” she said quietly. “I remember when I first became a ghost. I imagined a church. I imagined a nice, medium-size service with all my friends gathering to celebrate my life. There were purple flowers...and the church was so bright. So...so  _ beautiful _ .”

Sherlock’s throat closed as he remembered his brief jump into the Victorian Era. 

“But it wasn’t real,” she whispered. “And yet...someone came in. He was really rather snappy, I can remember. And...he looked a bit like you. I was feeling so  _ low  _ at that time...I felt that I wouldn’t be able to have any sort of a future, being trapped between two worlds with no way to choose which way I could lean towards. But he told me to have  _ hope.  _ He told me to  _ wait,  _ and then I would be satisfied. And then he disappeared. But I waited. I waited, and then...and then I met you. I just...it was just strange. He told me to wait...and then I did, and then you came along...it’s all rather strange, don’t you think?” 

She looked up at him beseechingly.

Sherlock wanted to tell her everything, but Mycroft shot him a look from across the room and he knew he had to leave. After all, it could wait for another time.

“I know what you mean,” he whispered. He quirked a small smile, laid a gloved hand over her cheek, then got up and left the interrogation room.

Just before he reached the doorway, Molly’s voice made him turn around.

“Text me,” she said clearly.

Sherlock nodded, and took his leave.

* * *

 

_ The following is a series of text messages the reader will find intriguing, all composed between 20 December 2014 and 22 December 2014. Each were sent to Marie “Molly” Eleanor Hooper on the indicated time and date from the mobile of one Sherlock Holmes. _

* * *

 

20 December 2014, 14:47:23 - Molly? SH

20 December 2014, 14:47:39 - Are you there? Have you come back from Baskerville yet? SH

20 December 2014, 14:48:10 - Well, I just wanted to tell you about this interesting case I got. Bit long. Maybe I should email it to you. Sorry. SH

* * *

 

20 December 2014, 19:18:46 - I tried cooking today. Was a disaster. Would not recommend. SH

20 December 2014, 19:19:30 - Who the hell am I kidding, Molly? I can’t be amusing with my texts. SH

20 December 2014, 19:19:47 - You’re always so funny and wonderful when you text and I

20 December 2014, 19:19:59 - Sorry, it sent early, but you’re just very fun to text. SH

20 December 2014, 19:30:45 - Please come back from Baskerville soon. SH

* * *

 

20 December 2014, 23:57:23 - Molly, I can’t sleep. SH

20 December 2014, 23:57:30 - I just want you to come home. SH

20 December 2014, 23:57:35 - Well, I didn’t mean “home” like we were domestic or anything like that. SH

20 December 2014, 23:57:38 - Well, unless you wanted it to be that way. SH

20 December 2014, 23:57:47 - Do you want to be domestic? SH

20 December 2014, 23:57:58 - Just wondering. SH

20 December 2014, 23:59:34 - I should go to sleep. SH

20 December 2014, 23:59:45 - But I’m not tired. SH

20 December 2014, 23:59:50 - Well, goodnight then Molly. SH

* * *

 

21 December 2014, 00:00:19 - Make that good morning. SH

* * *

 

21 December 2014, 08:34:24 - Just woke up. SH

21 December 2014, 08:34:30 - Mrs. Hudson’s playing Christmas music. SH

21 December 2014, 08:34:37 - Strange song. Singer has a decent voice though. SH

21 December 2014, 08:35:49 - Just asked Mrs. Hudson who the singer was. Some American named Mariah Carey. SH

21 December 2014, 08:35:55 - Apparently the song’s called “All I Want for Christmas is You.” SH

21 December 2014, 08:36:00 - I’m asking Mrs. Hudson to turn it off. It’s getting annoying. SH

* * *

 

22 December 2014, 10:37:49 - Hello Molly. SH

22 December 2014, 10:37:55 - Remember the Christmas party I told you about? SH

22 December 2014, 10:38:07 - I’m still going to host it on Christmas Eve. I invited all my other friends. You said you wanted to meet them. SH

22 December 2014, 10:38:12 - Maybe it could be something you could look forward to when you come back. SH

22 December 2014, 10:38:20 - Please come back. SH

22 December 2014, 10:38:29 - It’s been five days. SH

22 December 2014, 10:38:35 - Please. SH

22 December 2014, 10:48:34 - Molly, I

22 December 2014, 10:48:47 - Damn. That sent too early. SH

22 December 2014, 10:48:51 - Let me try again. SH

22 December 2014, 10:49:04 - Molly, I love you. SH

* * *

 

_ The following is a series of text messages composed and sent to one Mycroft Holmes from his brother Sherlock on the indicated time and date. _

* * *

 

22 December 2014, 16:45:29 - I forgot to tell you something at Scotland Yard, Mycroft. SH

22 December 2014, 16:45:47 - I think there’s someone you need to talk to. SH

22 December 2014, 16:45:58 - Someone who owns the BlackBerry in your trouser pocket. SH

22 December 2014, 16:46:04 - Because Mycroft, she still does own the BlackBerry in a way. SH

22 December 2014, 16:46:20 - And by the way, I’m holding a small get-together on Christmas Eve. SH

22 December 2014, 16:46:25 - Just for you to keep in mind, brother dear. SH

* * *

 

_ This marks the end of the text message excerpts. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye out for the next (and final) chapter. I might write an additional, extra scene, but I'll see if I have time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gracious! *fans myself* It's the last chapter! Enjoy, and see you at the bottom. Of the sea! Because I’m secretly a mermaid.

_ 23 December 2014 _

Mycroft stood on the pavement outside the apartment building, juggling his umbrella between his hands nervously.

He took out his mobile again and read the text from his brother.

_ I think there’s someone you need to talk to. SH _

Mycroft turned off his mobile and tucked it into his pocket. He sighed.

He knew that Sherlock, this time, was right.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t infallible. He’d slipped up so many times, too many times. The danger nights. The odd mis-deduction about someone. Moriarty.

Sherlock Holmes, however much he tried to deny it, was human. He erred in places. He slipped. He fell. He got back up. He went on.

Mycroft sighed heavily again and looked down at his neatly polished shoes. 

Mycroft, he wasn’t much different from his brother. He erred in places. He slipped. He fell. He got back up. He went on.

He raised his eyes back to the apartment building. It was a neat place, not run-down but not exactly posh. Sliding his hand into his left trouser pocket, Mycroft felt around and located a single brass key on a chain nestled with a BlackBerry. He breathed in, and breathed out.

After Mycroft had received the text from his brother the day before, he’d sat at his desk, locked his office door, and thought. It had officially been almost two weeks since Anthea had abruptly left his offices without even handing in a resignation slip, or cleaning out her desk, or taking most anything with her. For the first week or so, Mycroft had shut the door to her snug little office, a door away from his, and tried to put her out of his head. 

But thoughts of his colleague had come back every so often: Mycroft would hear the  _ click  _ of a dress shoe outside his door, and his head would jerk up, the man half-hoping that it would be Anthea opening his door to sit down and present some intel she’d gathered about some suspected felon. Or he would open her office door absentmindedly, hoping to give her a file to investigate, and be assaulted by the smell of her perfume, still lingering after her departure.

Eventually, Mycroft decided to go to his colleague’s flat and try to talk to her. Sherlock was right. There was someone he needed to talk to if he wanted to make  _ his  _ world the same once more.

He’d gone into her office that afternoon, dust beginning to settle over her books about political science, the smell of her perfume beginning to fade. He’d rummaged around in her desk drawers until he found what he was looking for: the spare key to her flat that she kept at the office.

Mycroft steeled himself. He needed to do this.

Shivering a bit in the December chill, he walked inside carefully and located her flat: third floor, flat 26. Silently, he unlocked her flat door with the key and pushed the door open.

He didn’t expect to see her.

Obviously, she didn’t expect to see him.

The room was brightly lit, and Mycroft looked about. He’d never been in his colleague’s flat before, and he found it rather... nice. The whole flat contained accents of dull green and gray. Her kitchen was snug but not terribly small, and her green couch was rather plump.

Anthea hadn’t put up any Christmas decorations.

Anthea’s briefcase sat by a dark green armchair.

Anthea herself was sitting in the chair.

_ Knitting. _

Mycroft awkwardly froze by the door and cleared his throat.

Anthea looked up and squinted. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at him again, as if checking to see if her former boss was  _ really  _ in her flat.

“I see I left my spare key in my desk,” was all she said. Flat. Emotionless.  _ Just how he used to speak before. _

This was  _ not  _ the Anthea that stormed out of his office two weeks ago, Mycroft decided.

“Have a seat.” She gestured at the couch with a large needle.

Mycroft warily walked over and sat on the couch. True to its looks, it was plump and soft.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Hm,” Anthea murmured, deftly knitting off a row. “My grandmother taught me. It calms me down and keeps my fingers limber.” She looked at him across the top of her work. “Helpful for typing on a BlackBerry.”

As always, his colleague knew how to hit him hard.

Mycroft swallowed awkwardly.

Anthea was dressed in a blazer and the ponté she’d worn when Mycroft had first told her about Molly Hooper. Her best dress shoes, the ones with the two-inch heels, were discarded haphazardly by her chair.

A CV was stuck crookedly in her briefcase, half-in, half-out of the bag.

Mycroft swallowed. Had she been looking for another job?

“I see you’ve got your, erm, CV…” His voice trailed off as he gestured awkwardly to the briefcase.

Anthea looked down at it. “Oh,” she replied flatly. “I was trying to get a position at the Swiss embassy today.” She carried on knitting. “Didn’t work.”

“Er...well.” Mycroft clasped his hands together uncomfortably. “Sorry? Sorry.”

Anthea eyed him over the top of her knitting, judged his response worthy, and continued on working, face stoic.

“Why Swiss?” Mycroft asked, knowing full well this conversation was going much like an interview. “Why the Swiss embassy?”

“My mother’s side of the family is from Switzerland,” Anthea replied, eyes glued to the green piece she was knitting. “I have a grandmother in Zürich. That was where my mother was raised. And I have aunts and uncles in Ticino. It just felt like a good embassy to work with.” Suddenly, her eyebrows furrowed. “Why am I telling you this?”

_ You trusted me, and I threw it away. _

_ I threw your trust away the moment I proposed putting surveillance on a woman you felt- you knew- was totally innocent. _

_ I threw your trust away when I disregarded the fact that your intuition and faith in humanity is unrivalled among the select few I tolerate. _

Guilt prickled at Mycroft’s chest, the truth of the matter coming to the surface in his mind, an unspoken truth that he didn’t want to admit out loud to his colleague.

“Anthea…” Mycroft sighed and looked down at his hands. They were shaking, and Mycroft folded them together to conceal the tremors racing through. “It’s been almost two weeks.”

“Since…?” Anthea prompted him tonelessly, the clack of her knitting needles echoing through the otherwise silent flat.

“Since…” Mycroft wanted to say,  _ Since you walked out of my offices and out of my life and left everything behind, and since I realized that I actually really liked the smell of your perfume, and since I realized that I’d thrown your trust away. _

Instead, he fished around in his pocket and set the BlackBerry on Anthea’s coffee table.

The woman furrowed her eyebrows at the device. Setting down her knitting, she reached over and picked the BlackBerry up.

“I cracked the screen when it fell on the floor,” she said thoughtfully. “And now…”

Mycroft swallowed. He’d taken the mobile to be repaired, the long neat crack in the screen having caused a lump to form in his throat every time he saw it.

“I remember what you told me,” Anthea said quietly, staring down at her BlackBerry. Mycroft pressed his lips together. The mobile fit perfectly in her rather small, slightly tanned palm.

“You told me about when you played deductions with Sherlock, the hat one. After he came back from  _ Lazarus. _ ”

She paused. “I remember you telling me about the patches in the hat. The owner chose to repair it rather than throw it away. Right?”

Mycroft nodded silently.

Anthea turned on the BlackBerry and signed in. “Hm, everything’s still here,” she mused quietly, then continued. “You said that this warranted a sentimental connection to the object. And now, over a month later, you’ve brought me  _ this. _ ” She tossed the BlackBerry up in the air and caught it, then let her green gaze rake over Mycroft. 

“Are you trying to tell me something?” she asked, the BlackBerry clutched in her hand, which was tilted at a jaunty angle. She raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft’s breath caught. This woman was incredibly smart...that he knew, otherwise he wouldn’t have even let her into his office to interview her when an official from another department had recommended her to serve as his PA and close colleague.

She also knew how to pack punches, both the physical and mental kind. 

All this added up into Mycroft’s total respect for Anthea.

She’d given him so much.

He’d repaid her with nothing.

_ “Take, take, take, no give, Myc,” a young Sherlock had grumbled, so many years ago when playing with Mycroft’s new book set and the colourful covers, watching as Mycroft grabbed all of the hardcovers out of his chubby hands and placed them where he couldn’t reach them. He felt so satisfied, then, at taking what was rightfully his. These were not  _ _ William’s and he absolutely did  _ not  _ need to share them with anyone, much less his obnoxious younger sibling. _

“Yes,” he replied at last. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m listening,” Anthea said, dropping her knitting into a yarn basket by her chair and tucking her legs up. “Don’t hold back, Mycroft Holmes. I know you like to pretend you’re an unfeeling machine, but this time, I don’t want you to hold back.”

Somehow, her eyes gave him courage.

“Anthea…” Mycroft collected himself. He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. For...for...I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Anthea was staring at him with something unreadable in her eyes: pity? Doubt? Both?

“I’m sorry for not trusting you when I obviously should have, because Anthea, Molly Hooper was innocent all along. I should have trusted you. I should have trusted Sherlock more.

“And I can make all the excuses about how the danger nights caused me to withhold from trusting my brother, but still, Anthea, he’s my  _ brother.  _ I watched him get flogged in Serbia. I didn’t tell you about that, but he was in a compound being tortured by a man with a metal pipe when I found him.”

Anthea looked shocked.

“I was in disguise, and it was all I could do to restrain myself. To sit, and watch, and wait.  _ Powerless _ .”

She put a hand over her mouth. 

“When you left…” Mycroft couldn’t stop talking. “When you left, it was all I could do to keep from chasing after you, because I know how dangerous it is to...to not heed Anthea’s wishes.” The lump was forming in his throat again, and he had to fight it. “It was like Serbia all over again. Restrain myself. Sit. Watch. Wait.  _ Powerless. _ ”

He took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to come back to the office, I need to know. I can’t keep torturing myself wondering if you’re ever going to come back.”

Silence fell between them. Mycroft’s head fell into his hands and he stared at the taupe carpet.

“Mycroft.”

Anthea’s voice dragged him back to the flat, to the present.

He jerked his head up.

She looked softer.  _ Forgiveness? Sentiment? _

“Mycroft…” She got up softly from her armchair and picked her way to the couch, and sat beside him.

“Oh, Mycroft. I never knew.” A pair of warm, smaller hands gently pried his hands from his face. “I never knew.”

Mycroft let Anthea tilt his head up and lean her forehead against his. “God, Mycroft,” she whispered, closing her eyes. He did the same, if only to savor the sound of her voice more. “I never knew you...felt that way. I’m sorry, too.”

Mycroft exhaled gently.

Suddenly, Anthea removed her hands from his face and covered his hands with hers. Mycroft opened his eyes.

“I’m coming back to the office next Monday,” she said with a little smile. “If that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Mycroft squeaked a bit nervously, feeling warmth spread across his face. “Definitely more than okay.”

Anthea chuckled a bit warmly. “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?” Mycroft asked in utter confusion.

She leaned forward, impulsively, and kissed him. 

At first, he froze in confusion.

And then finally,  _ finally, _ Mycroft Holmes took the hint.

The air was bitterly cold outside on that December day, so close to Christmas, but two politicians melted slowly, together, into one, inside a modest, unassuming flat.

* * *

 

_ 24 December 2014 _

Sherlock stood silently at his window, a block of rosin in one hand and his mobile in another.

Behind him, a murmur of conversation rose over instrumental Christmas music Mrs. Hudson was playing softly on her radio.

It was Christmas Eve, and the get-together he’d promised Molly was well underway.

Unfortunately, the person to which he’d promised the party was nowhere to be found.

He’d texted Molly so many times over the past few days, Mycroft (who was monitoring all his outgoing messages) ended up taking his mobile’s functionality away from him until Christmas Eve.

Mycroft refused to answer any of his questions pertaining to when Molly would return from Baskerville. 

At least Mycroft had actually heeded the last-ditch advice Sherlock had sent to him concerning that PA of his. Anthea, was that her name? She went by so many, Sherlock had stopped bothering to keep track. Still, it was good to see her in Mycroft’s company again. 

Sherlock knew for sure that Molly had changed him for the better. He’d learned so much just from being in her company: the gift of empathy, being able to understand the people around him better...being able to love like he hadn’t before.

Love...Sherlock was surprised that he could use the word so easily now. Was it a word, or an idea? Was it an idea that surpassed companionship and understanding? Or was it an idea that simply  _ encompassed  _ companionship and understanding and everything in between?

There were still a lot of questions Sherlock had about love, and he knew now that the idea of it was much more different than he’d once thought. A lifetime ago he might have categorized it as  _ Terribly Boring and Unimportant,  _ but now...now that was different. First Molly changed it for him. Then he started rethinking the connection of that idea between himself and his brother...and himself and his parents and immediate family. Then John, when Sherlock first understood that love went farther than the kind of over-commercialized crap one could see on television, and love could even extend to the love between friends.

Sherlock sighed and looked back down at his mobile. No new texts since 17 December. One week. None of his texts had been read since that day too.

Suddenly, his vision blurred. Sherlock dropped his rosin block on the carpet suddenly and swiped at his eyes with a fist and a frustrated growl. It was  _ Christmas,  _ for God’s sake.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the wall next to the window, suddenly feeling very old. 

Distantly, he recalled a dim hallway, the click of Molly’s favorite pair of boots on the tile, her warm hand in his.

_ His thumb massaged over the joint of Molly’s index finger repeatedly. Sherlock still couldn’t quite believe that his friend was alive. He couldn’t believe that she’d been able to reanimate a body and become a living, breathing woman for the first time in over a century. _

_ Even more unbelievable was that she’d welcomed him back after he’d been gone for so long.  _

_ Molly was impossibly patient. She'd waited for 112 years, hoping that she could find a friend. Then she'd waited for him all the time when he wasn't at Bart’s, hoping for her friend to come back. Then she'd pushed herself way over the line, as a  _ ghost, _ to save him when he fell off the roof of Bart’s. And then she'd waited for two more years. Waited in a London that was so new and unfamiliar to a former ghost from the 17th century, waiting all in the hope that Sherlock would come back to her soon.  _

_ Sherlock looked down at Molly as they walked to the stairwell. Even with her boots, the crown of her head only quite reached his shoulder. He quirked a smile at her as she looked up at him with the dark eyes he hadn’t seen in what felt like a whole lifetime. _

_ Suddenly, he heard something from behind them. _

_ He stopped. Molly stopped with him. _

_ They were only about six feet away from the door to the stairwell. _

_ “What’s wrong?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. _

_ “I heard something,” Sherlock murmured and turned his head to eye the end of the hallway. “I heard something…” he murmured again as he saw that the hall was empty save for himself and Molly. Perhaps he was just extremely paranoid after  _ Lazarus  _ and its various high-risk situations. _

_ But he was sure he’d heard something. Something… _

_ He fell into silence and listened harder. _

_ And then, he heard something. _

_ A sigh. _

I am satisfied.

_ And then a smaller, softer sigh, like something had disappeared, evaporated, dissipated like smoke. _

_ Sherlock squinted into the dim. _

_ “Do you see anything?” Molly brought him back. _

_ He turned back to the worried face of one of his best friends. _

_ “No. I was probably just imagining it.” _

_ They continued to the stairwell. _

_ And for the whole cab ride to Angelo’s, he couldn’t take his eyes off of his Molly... _

Sherlock shook his head frantically as he watched fat white snowflakes drift past the window. He couldn’t wallow in memories and just shut out the people he’d invited to his own home.

_ Molly wouldn’t want that,  _ something said inside him.  _ You’re hosting this party for her. _

Everything he did seemed to be for her.

It was just damn  _ unfair  _ that she couldn’t be around to see it.

He bent over and retrieved his rosin, then placed it by his violin case and began typing something new into his mobile’s message field. He didn’t send it off yet, though. There was something he needed to do first.

He retrieved the rosin again and began applying it to his violin bow meticulously, staring out of the window at the snow falling past and coating the ground with a white layer. A lone cab pulled up across the street and deposited a worn individual with a large green gift bag and a backpack thrown over their shoulders. Sherlock sighed. If only Molly was here. 

He looked down at his mobile. 

_ Merry Christmas Eve, Molly Hooper. SH _

He sent it off, tossed the mobile onto his desk, and picked up his violin. Striding across the room to the fireplace, he shut off Mrs. Hudson’s radio and worked through an E-flat scale. Somehow this key reminded him of Molly.

“Right. Taking requests after this one,” Sherlock said loudly, remembering the undercover cases he would take around this time, when he was alone and had nobody else to celebrate the holidays with, save for the violin. 

He sighed softly and began “Silent Night” as his friends gradually filtered into the sitting room to listen. 

Sherlock glanced around the room. John and Mary were there, as well as Mycroft and Anthea. Lestrade was talking quietly with John as Mary and Anthea conversed. Mycroft skulked in a corner with a glass of brandy. Mrs. Hudson watched him play from her seat in John’s old chair. 

The room was full and bright, but it felt totally cheerless and empty to Sherlock. 

Molly hadn't come back. 

As Sherlock finished off the piece, he faintly heard Mrs. Hudson humming. 

_ Sleep in heavenly peace.  _

Sherlock stopped the piece at the frog of the bow (odd, yes, to  _ end  _ a piece on an up bow, but he really wasn’t paying attention anymore). A smattering of applause came from his guests. 

His mobile beeped an alert. 

Sherlock stared at his mobile from across the room. 

His guests grew silent, watching Sherlock freeze as he gawked at his mobile. 

Sherlock came out of his reverie and dashed to his mobile, shoving his violin and bow into a surprised Mrs. Hudson’s arms as he went. 

Sherlock swiped his mobile off his desk, an irrepressible hope filling his chest as he opened it up and read whatever text had been sent to him. 

As his blue-green eyes flicked around his screen, Sherlock sharply inhaled in shock. 

_ Merry Christmas Eve to you too! MH _

“ _ Sherlock,  _ mate, you’re literally  _ white _ in the face. Something wrong?” John asked worriedly from his post, Mary at his side.

Suddenly, a soft, uncertain knock sounded at the door of the sitting room. Then another few knocks, slightly more confident than the first.

Sherlock ignored John and whipped around towards the door, hope enlarging in his chest, filling him like helium would fill a balloon, threatening to carry him up, up, up…

The door opened. Everyone stared towards the door.

“Hello, Sherlock!”

Molly Hooper beamed at him from across the room, in a golden-yellow pullover and brown coat and a backpack over her shoulders. A large green gift bag stood at her side, as if she’d just put it down to open the door.

Sherlock remembered the stranger who had exited the cab on the street outside his window...the stranger he could now put a name to.

“I made it!” Molly bounced up and down a bit, her eyes sparkling.

Sherlock’s vision tunneled. She was  _ safe,  _ she was  _ back,  _ nothing had happened at Baskerville…

_ It’s Christmas! _

He whipped his vision to Mycroft.  _ Was it you? Did you arrange something? _

Mycroft raised his glass just a fraction, as if toasting him.

_ Thank you. _

Sherlock tossed his mobile to Mycroft, who handed his glass off to Anthea and lazily raised a hand to catch the mobile.

Sherlock, on the other hand, practically ran to the other side of the room, to Molly standing, smiling happily. 

When Molly stepped over the threshold, Sherlock smiled widely and caught her waist. She squeaked a bit as he lifted her up and twirled her around. When he set her back on her feet, her cheeks were quite pink. 

“You're  _ back... _ you're  _ here, _ ” Sherlock grinned down at her, feeling the hope in his chest consolidate into joy.

His hands were still around her waist. 

Molly looped her arms around his chest and pulled him in. She sighed against his neat blazer. “I just got back yesterday,” she told him. “Everything - the testing, the questions, the interviews -  _ definitely _ went faster than I thought it would. But I had to run around buying Christmas presents almost as soon as I got home! Next year, I  _ definitely  _ won't procrastinate.”

Over her reddish-brown hair, Sherlock saw John staring in shock at the two of them and making little squeaking noises, jaw half-open. Next to him, Mary tipped his jaw up with a slender finger, a smirk crossing her face. 

He turned his eyes back down to his friend, still enclosed in his arms. As if sensing his eyes on her, Molly pulled back a bit to look up at him. 

He inspected every inch of her face. The past week had been the first time that Sherlock and Molly had been separated since  _ Lazarus,  _ and even then Sherlock had thought Molly was gone forever. Molly being separated from him...it was an idea that he didn’t like, now that he’d experienced...how did the Portuguese say it?  _ Saudade. _

_ Saudade... _ according to the list of foreign-language, untranslatable terms in his head, Sherlock knew that it encompassed the range of longing and feelings that one could experience while being faced with the absence of someone dearly loved. Like the concept of love itself, he hadn’t really understood  _ saudade.  _ Until now.

Molly blinked up at him, the Christmas lights reflecting in her wide brown eyes.

“Please don’t leave me again,” Sherlock said quietly, taking his hands from her waist to card through her wavy hair. She’d let it down tonight, probably from a hastily-made plait. “I can’t…”

He couldn’t finish.   
“Oh,  _ Sherlock, _ ” Molly sighed. “I don’t think I’d ever find the need to. And if I’m forced to, well...I can  _ fight  _ it.”

She looked so  _ determined,  _ there in that moment, with the lights shining in her eyes and her delicate chin set. So much like and yet unlike the face of the ghost he saw in the lab that first day, from the opposite side of the little room.

He leaned down and kissed her full on the lips.

Molly gasped a bit against his lips, but eventually relaxed and looped her hands around his neck, standing on tiptoe to make the gap easier to bridge.

Sherlock slid a hand behind her head and tipped it up as he deepened the kiss, his eyes stinging as he realized what he had almost lost, not just when the ghost had vaporized after the fall, not just when government agents dragged a very much alive Molly into a police car, but also the many times when the ghost of Molly Hooper had lost hope over those 112 years that she had waited for him, when she’d lost hope and slowly began to fade.

_ He’d almost lost her so many times. _

_There was no way he was going to lose her_ _again_.

“Alright dears, pay up!”

Sherlock and Molly broke apart in shock. Sherlock lifted his head and Molly whirled around in front of him to stare at Sherlock’s guests. 

Anthea was smirking widely, holding out both hands to Mycroft and Lestrade. Both men looked thoroughly disappointed as they each placed a couple of notes in Anthea’s hands. 

“What the  _ hell?! _ ” Sherlock burst out. 

“I thought they'd kiss later on, not  _ in front of us, _ ” Lestrade grumbled. “Damn, you're too smart.”

“Agreed on both counts,” Mycroft drawled, taking a drink. 

Meanwhile, John was still gawking. Mary smirked at Sherlock.  _ You've surprised him again,  _ her look said. 

_ So it seems,  _ he rolled his eyes. 

Sherlock thought. And he made a decision. When Sherlock had first brought John to his lab, he saw right through Molly. She wasn't there to him like she had been to Sherlock. 

Perhaps he could learn. To observe, not just to see. To refrain from seeing through what was truly there. 

Perhaps that could serve useful, if Mary ever decided to disclose that past she liked to keep hidden. 

Sherlock had managed to sneak into Mycroft’s file for Mary. He'd found that indeed, the woman now known as Mary Morstan, soon to be Watson,  _ had  _ worked with Mycroft on a few undercover operations, long before John had come around. But the time from that until now...there was nothing. 

John was a character all his own. It took a while to heal wounds for him. He'd slammed an already-wounded Sherlock into the floor of a posh restaurant out of rage. Granted, if he knew about Sherlock’s condition, he might not have reacted like he did, but it was Mary that Sherlock worried about. 

Mary Morstan had something to hide from that time.

And Sherlock worried about how John would react if she ever decided to disclose her past to him. 

Sherlock made a decision. 

He took Molly’s hand and walked with her to where John was gawping at the two of them. Anthea, Mycroft, and Lestrade were talking to each other in hushed tones, casting quick looks at both Molly and Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson stood with the violin and bow, beaming from ear to ear. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, suddenly feeling nervous. He turned to Molly. 

_ Can you see what I'm trying to do? _

Molly’s brows furrowed...then like the sun coming from behind the clouds, the confusion left her face, and she nodded quickly. That sent encouragement racing through Sherlock's body. He  _ had  _ to do this. 

“John,” Sherlock said to his friend and former flatmate. “John, this is my Molly. Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist at Bart’s. Molly,” he turned to Molly now. “This is Dr. John Watson, my former flatmate.”

Mary stood off to the side, watching closely. 

“And this is his fiancée, Mary Morstan,” Sherlock tacked on quickly. But his eyes were on John. What would he say? How would he react?

_ “What are we doing here?!” John hissed at Sherlock as Sherlock dragged him through the halls of Bart’s purposefully. It had officially been three months since John had moved into 221B Baker Street, and even though they’d only been friends for such a short time, they had already started to get on very well. _

_ Today, Sherlock wanted to show his new friend the person...or rather, the ghost that had changed him for the better. _

_ Sherlock had his gloved hand clamped firmly over the doctor’s wrist as he dragged him up various flights of stairs, down several hallways, to the lab he shared with the ghost of Molly Eleanor Hooper. _

_ “I’m going to take you to meet someone,” Sherlock said resolutely. “She’s been very helpful and I promised her I would introduce her to you.” _

_ That part was true: Molly had been wondering about Sherlock’s friends and companions (the living ones, that is). She’d been in the lab when Mike Stamford dragged John in to introduce him to Sherlock. Being invisible then, she didn’t know if John could see her or not. _

_ Today, Sherlock was testing John. _

_ If all went well, John would be able to see Molly and hopefully they could get along like Sherlock and Molly had. _

_ And if worse came to worst...John would think Sherlock was insane. _

_ Sherlock pushed the worry out of his head and dragged him down the hall to the lab. _

_ “Who’s this someone?” John demanded. _

_ Sherlock ignored this and let go of John a few doors away from his lab. “Wait here,” he ordered John. “I’ll call you shortly.” _

_ John looked like he was about to protest, so Sherlock sprinted the rest of the way to his lab to avoid the scathing protests from his flatmate. _

_ He threw open the door and slid inside. _

_ “Molly?” he said quietly. “Could you come out?” _

_ A pop, and Molly’s ghost was standing before him, a bit less transparent than usual. _

_ “Hello, Holmes!” Molly said cheerfully. “Are you in a rush?” _

_ “Afraid so,” Sherlock said. “I want to introduce you to my flatmate. Remember John?” _

_ Molly’s ghostly brow furrowed as she thought. “Yes, I think so,” she replied slowly. “The sandy-haired chap, am I right?” _

_ “Yes, him,” Sherlock said. “I brought him along.” A bubble of nerves expanded in his chest. “I wanted to introduce you to him and him to you.” _

_ “Holmes, have you taken into account that he might not be able to see me?” _

_ Sherlock waved the concern off. _

_ “That’s what experiments are for, right?” _

_ “Good point. Shall we?” _

_ Sherlock poked his head out. _

_ “Here, John!” _

_ Grumbling, his blond flatmate stalked past him and into the lab. Sherlock shut the door and stood back. _

_ Molly had hauled herself onto the central table, silver skirts spread out neatly around her. She made a polite little wave of welcome for John. _

_ Sherlock watched John anxiously. _

_ His deep blue eyes focused on the central table, narrowing as if trying to make out something. _

_ “What are you trying to show me? Where’s this person you wanted to introduce me to?” John asked, a hint of confusion and annoyance clouding his voice. _ _  
_ _ “Her name’s Molly. She helps me with experiments.” Sherlock trailed off nervously as he realized that he sounded absolutely insane. _

_ “There’s nobody in this room, Sherlock! Are you trying to trick me?” John wheeled on Sherlock a bit furiously.  _

_ Sherlock looked at the ghost on the central table. Slowly, she gathered her skirts and floated off the table to rest on the floor, folding her hands over her silver skirts. _

_ She smiled sadly. _

_ John followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes again. “Sherlock, I don’t know. There’s nobody in here. Maybe we missed this Molly. Some other time.” _

_ And almost parallel to just a few minutes earlier, John seized Sherlock’s wrist and hauled him out of the room. _

Finally,  _ finally _ , John’s face cleared in the lights from the various Christmas decorations hung around the flat. Recognition entered his blue eyes, and Sherlock knew his friend enough to read it like reading words on a page.  _ I know you,  _ John was saying.  _ But I never really saw you. I'm so, so sorry.  _

He stretched out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Molly.”

Molly looked up at Sherlock, quirked a little smile, and then turned back to John and shook his hand. 

“I'm pleased to meet you, too,” she said quite pleasantly.

Sherlock smiled then. He smiled at his Molly, and John. He smiled at Mary and Mycroft and Anthea and Lestrade. He smiled at Mrs. Hudson. 

The world seemed to be smiling. 

There  _ was  _ no more darkness. Molly Hooper was not lying dead on a street in Victorian London, the wails of anguished friends and grieving colleagues rising to the heathery sky. Her ghost was no longer waiting for a person who could see her for who she was. Molly was home.  Molly was here. Dear, brave Molly, who'd waited for 112 years and then finally got what she'd wanted the whole time as a ghost and a person. The promise of a friend. 

And now, they were all here. Living in this moment, in this point in time. 

And the world smiled. 

_ End _


End file.
